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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice 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. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several