'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Youth and Educators on Two Years Without School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my favourite class. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed not long after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the final day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; teaching, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, two brothers and sister in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I gaze toward the stars through the openings of my shelter and question if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, stating they miss school and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a writer – to compose, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their children. I forfeited my beautiful city, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents deserve books, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I am uncertain.

All over this territory, teachers, aid workers and organizations endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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