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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. 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 attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our existence: security, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several