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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where helpers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always thought instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, 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 shattered every aspect of our existence: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Many of my students are now lost – children who mentioned becoming physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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