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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to narrate our accounts of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my family member, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every part of our lives: safety, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange brief words, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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