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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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