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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the stars through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has broken every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the disorder. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, teachers, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several