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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several