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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several