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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. Two years since I heard the start-of-class signal at my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, pencil shavings, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, air raid sirens sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my guardians, siblings and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my temporary home and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help Gaza’s children learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble 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: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit texts, learning environments and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Initially in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for relatives fleeing the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are very few educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The conflict has shattered every facet of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and instructors. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact asking: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also parents. I am a mother of {three|several