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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained 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 learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story 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, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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