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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, 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 believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several