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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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 live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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