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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, 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 learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several