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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. 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 elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several