'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on Two Years Without School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the concluding day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a modest shelter where helpers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their children. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, aesthetics, and motion. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For this period, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every part of our lives: security, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Across the region, instructors, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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