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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered 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 clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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