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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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