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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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