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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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