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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several