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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show 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 voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over the region, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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