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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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