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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several