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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several