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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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