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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. 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 connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several