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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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