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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several