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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit texts, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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