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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several