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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion 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 guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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