'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Gaza's Children and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. 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 normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “How are you, instructor?” We share short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several