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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several