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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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