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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region 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 used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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