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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth merit books, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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