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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. 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, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several