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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

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

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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