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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice 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 want action. Young residents merit books, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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