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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the celestial bodies through the holes of my tent and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Young residents merit books, learning environments and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for a substantial period. Initially 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 six classes of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a area of amusement, creativity, and movement. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted apprehension. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families running from the explosives. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has broken every part of our lives: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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