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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, schools and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. 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.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

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

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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