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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching 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 type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several