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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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