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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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