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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end 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 reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several