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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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