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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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