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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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