'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, two brothers and sister in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, expressing they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to write, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a tiny space where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

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

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every facet of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and educators. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

All over the region, educators, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several