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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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