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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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