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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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 parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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