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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 heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several