'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Youth and Educators on 24 Months Without Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops 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 learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity substituted fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several