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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve texts, schools and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers 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 provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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