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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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