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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several