'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Youth and Educators on 24 Months Without School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I live with my guardians, two brothers and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they can, saying they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents deserve books, schools and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and now in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach several sets of about dozens of learners, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator strives for.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as inquisitiveness replaced anxiety. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always scared. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, all was altered.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every part of our reality: protection, residences, learning places, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

Numerous of my students are now lost – youth who talked about aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who survive endure malnutrition, displacement and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write asking: “Are you safe, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, instructors, volunteers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And provided that we persist in education, we will persist.

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