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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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