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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several