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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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