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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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