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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

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 beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and security. Schooling 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 story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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