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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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