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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost 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 reporter – to draft, to talk and to show 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 amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

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

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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