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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations 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 declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several