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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several