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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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