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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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