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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor 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 there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several