'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Children and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

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

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person 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 try to study digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where aid workers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. 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, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now dead – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the desire for education.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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