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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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