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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school 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 dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several