'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools left standing in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now lost – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, helpers and charities endeavor education in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will endure.

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