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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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 dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, 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 express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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