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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several