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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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