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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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