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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation 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 this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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