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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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