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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. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. 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 fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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