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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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