'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Gaza's Youth and Teachers on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve books, schools and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Numerous of my pupils are now lost – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several