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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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