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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, 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 typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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