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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; 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 last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss 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 al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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