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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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