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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – children who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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