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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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