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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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