'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Teachers on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my shelter and question if my peers see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a space of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for households running from the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure hunger, relocation and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message asking: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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