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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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