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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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