'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Youth and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: writing residue, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At night, I look up at the stars through the openings of my tent and question if my companions see the comparable vista. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a reporter – to draft, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Sometimes, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in such times, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and families. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth are entitled to texts, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if all I have left is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in the central camp in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of recreation, aesthetics, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always occupied the area as interest displaced apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: security, homes, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my students are now deceased – children who talked about becoming doctors, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, relocation and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We share short messages, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. 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 remain.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a guardian of {three|several