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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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