'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on Two Years Deprived of Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, stating they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit texts, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of play, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives running from the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions still erect in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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