'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on Two Years Deprived of Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools still erect in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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