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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; 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 support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show 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 loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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