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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. 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 forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “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