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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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