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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon 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 entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. 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 attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several