'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Youth and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a minor in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Other times, I visit a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of recreation, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives fleeing the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – youth who talked about dreaming of doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who remain endure malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the internet allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We share short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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