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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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