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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth merit books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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