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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers 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 loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several