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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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