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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several