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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

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

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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