'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Youth and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, schools and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our reality: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several