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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several