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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 proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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