'Without education, we lose our future': Gaza's Children and Teachers on 24 Months Without School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the night lights through the openings of my tent and wonder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children merit texts, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recall the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a shelter for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities still erect in this area now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who spoke of becoming medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and weariness – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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