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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, 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 international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, homes, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of doctors, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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