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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris 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 require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several