'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – 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 believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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