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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: security, residences, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, educator?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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