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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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