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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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