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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. 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 state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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