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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several