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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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