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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several