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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 real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several