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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several