'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to assist local youth study, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I try to study online. Other times, I go to a tiny space where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I lost my family member, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a scrap of damaged material.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every educator strives for.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted fear. Certainly, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every aspect of our existence: safety, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive experience malnutrition, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, teacher?” We communicate brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I tell them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several