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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, 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 schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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