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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

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

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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