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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, 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 say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several