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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve literature, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for households fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in this area now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “How are you, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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