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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, 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 preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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