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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit texts, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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