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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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