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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children 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 damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every part of our reality: protection, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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