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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several