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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect 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 not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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