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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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