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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. 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 attended classes. That morning, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers teach 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 student who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit literature, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My school became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access enables, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

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

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