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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher 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 presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated 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 gleam in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities still erect in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, instructors, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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