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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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