'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Youth and Educators on Two Years Deprived of Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was bombed soon after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my mother and father, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the openings of my temporary home and wonder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have preserved their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, learning centers and kin. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we demand measures. The youth merit literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, creativity, and motion. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Certainly, even before the war, young residents were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has shattered every part of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my pupils are now dead – youth who mentioned dreaming of doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who survive live with starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write asking: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I don’t know.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and organizations attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will remain.

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