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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end 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 parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several