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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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