'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Children and Teachers on 24 Months Without School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator lives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will remain.

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