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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several