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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, educators, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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