'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Educators on Two Years Without Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. 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, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our lives: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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