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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several