'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Children and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

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

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to write, to speak and to reveal 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 here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, learning centers and kin. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in the region for a substantial period. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, art, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Yes, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a shelter for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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