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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

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

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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