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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice 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 don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several