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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. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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