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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

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

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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