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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former 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, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. 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 helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several