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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several