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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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