'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on 24 Months Deprived of Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My classroom was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several