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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several