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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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