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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: security, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, educator?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several