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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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