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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 learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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