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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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