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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 real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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