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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, 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 learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where aid workers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of play, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across the region, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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