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

'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 my former school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That morning, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, siblings and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We line up for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my shelter and question if my companions see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to support local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to write, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and kin. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. Young residents merit books, schools and security. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach six classes of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no learning institutions left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our existence: security, homes, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience hunger, displacement and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a few of them. They contact questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the turmoil. They question if situations will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Across the region, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in any feasible location: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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