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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 real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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