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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several