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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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