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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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