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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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