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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, 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 education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor 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 connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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