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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit texts, educational facilities and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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