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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered 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 distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several