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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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