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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, 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. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble 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. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several