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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several