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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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