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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over Gaza, educators, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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