'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Teachers on Two Years Without School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted not long after the war began. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. The youth deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My learning environment was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few schools left standing in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has shattered every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my learners are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I hear from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several