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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several