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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, 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 that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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