'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

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

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to books, schools and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for families fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – children who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, instructor?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I tell them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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