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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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