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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several