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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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