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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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