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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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