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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, occupied my place and answered questions during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

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

Now I live with my guardians, siblings and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for water and food. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the stars through the holes of my temporary home and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they manage, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, all was altered.

My school became a safe haven for relatives escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every facet of our reality: safety, dwellings, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – minors who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a small number of them. They message inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate short messages, short lessons, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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