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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 learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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