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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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