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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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