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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation 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 don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit texts, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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