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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of play, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, residences, schools, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, helpers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several