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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth merit books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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