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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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