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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. 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 it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several