'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Teachers on 24 Months Without School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, 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 bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children merit texts, educational facilities and security. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought instruction should be vibrant. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about becoming doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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