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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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