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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. 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 there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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