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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several