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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 learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, 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 teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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