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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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