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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. 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 guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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