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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every part of our lives: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – children who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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