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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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