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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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