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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth deserve texts, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a area of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – youth who mentioned becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several