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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several