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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, helpers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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