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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, 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 state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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