'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Children and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, stating they miss school and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be vibrant. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has shattered every part of our lives: protection, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now lost – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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