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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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