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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth merit texts, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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