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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several