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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers 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 recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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