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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, 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. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

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