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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 proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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