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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, 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 require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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