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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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