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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; 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, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They question if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several