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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation 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 require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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