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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. 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 continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

All over the region, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several