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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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