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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 heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

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

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several