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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect 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 hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, 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 want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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