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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several