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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal 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 endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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