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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve books, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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