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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several