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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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