'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Gaza's Children and Educators on Two Years Without Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every part of our existence: protection, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several