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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. 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 preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several