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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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