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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds 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 sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several