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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth are entitled to books, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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