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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First 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 used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several