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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil 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 more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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