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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education 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 mother of {three|several