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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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