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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, 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, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several