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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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