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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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