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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several