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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several