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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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