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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, 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 international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several