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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained 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 help Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the bombs. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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