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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve books, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several