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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice 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 Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, 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 online. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

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

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several