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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

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 raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now lost – minors who spoke of aspiring to be doctors, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience starvation, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

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