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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several