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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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