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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal 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 bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several