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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every facet of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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