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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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