'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the stars through the holes of my tent and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some message me when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study online. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and kin. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth 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 fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned becoming medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I hear from a handful of them. They write questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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