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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several