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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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