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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. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several