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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several