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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, 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 temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story 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, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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