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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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