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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, 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. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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