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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered 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 answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several