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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several