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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several