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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; 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 young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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