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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, 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.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where helpers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and security. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in a southern city, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always afraid. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our reality: protection, homes, learning places, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now dead – minors who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, educators, helpers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several