'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I went to school. That morning, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist local youth learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, educational facilities and protection. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. First in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in the region now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every facet of our existence: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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