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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall 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 residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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