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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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