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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

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

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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