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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. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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