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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris 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 seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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