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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 stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our existence: security, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – children who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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