'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; teaching, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and question if my companions see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they manage, saying they miss school and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I attend a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed learning should be full of life. My classroom was a area of amusement, art, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has shattered every aspect of our reality: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity enables, I hear from a few of them. They message asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, teachers, aid workers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several