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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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