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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; 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 help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, 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 say this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our reality: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – children who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several