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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. 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 tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our existence: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several