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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 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 participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several