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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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