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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. 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, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several