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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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