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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our reality: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several