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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. 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 al-Mawasi. 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 privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a small tent where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth merit books, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a shelter for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I have no answer.

Across Gaza, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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