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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several