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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, learning environments and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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