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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth deserve books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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