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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit texts, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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