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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. 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 shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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