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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve literature, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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