'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Youth and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, saying they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their children. I lost my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every facet of our existence: protection, homes, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We share concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several