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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our reality: security, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several