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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several