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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, 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 education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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