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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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