'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Youth and Educators on Two Years Without School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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