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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; 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 assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several