'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on Two Years Deprived of School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the holes of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit books, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My educational institution became a shelter for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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