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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 proper school. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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