'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Children and Educators on 24 Months Without School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

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

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in Khan Younis, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in the region now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our existence: security, dwellings, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and educators. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I don’t know.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will persist.

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