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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the war began. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the stars through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they can, expressing they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents learn, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to write, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I visit a tiny space where helpers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and families. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth deserve texts, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my narrative and I will continue writing, 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, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every educator strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of play, creativity, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity displaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My classroom was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Many of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of dreaming of physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, helpers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

A significant number of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several