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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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