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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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