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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, 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 say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions 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 more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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