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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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