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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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