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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several