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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several