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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 learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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