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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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