'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Children and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted soon after the war began. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and question if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Across this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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