'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Gaza's Children and Teachers on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, 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 learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Young residents merit literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in this area for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain live with malnutrition, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I hear from a small number of them. They message asking: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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