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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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