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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” 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