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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several