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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded 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 ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several