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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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