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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. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft 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 fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several