'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck 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 final day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the corridors. Some students wept, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for water and food. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, learning environments and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, 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, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always thought learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, dwellings, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the chaos. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, teachers, volunteers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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