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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

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 sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several