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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, 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 my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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