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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, 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 require steps. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has broken every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of connection amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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