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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. 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. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page 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 live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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