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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. 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 female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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