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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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