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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, 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 presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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