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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, schools and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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