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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. 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 that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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