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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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