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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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