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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit literature, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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