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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who spoke of becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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