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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, 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 account and I will persist in composing, 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 a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several