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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, 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 state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones 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, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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