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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire 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.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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