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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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