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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

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

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They write asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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