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'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest replaced apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several