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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account 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?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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