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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss 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 congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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