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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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