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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom 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 inquisitiveness displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several