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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, 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 a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several