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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, 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 learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity displaced apprehension. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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