'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Educators on 24 Months Without Education.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, learning environments and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every aspect of our lives: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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