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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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