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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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 live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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