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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: security, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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