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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several