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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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