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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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