'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Gaza's Youth and Educators on 24 Months Without School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, recess, 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 schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to literature, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a shelter for households escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our existence: security, residences, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several