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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing 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 assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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