'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. 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 darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

'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 a southern city, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our existence: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet enables, I hear from a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

Many of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several