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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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