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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, 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: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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