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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several