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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives escaping the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: security, residences, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – youth who mentioned becoming medical professionals, artists, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several