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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several