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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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