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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. 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 live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several