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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That morning, air raid sirens blared through the halls. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they can, expressing they miss school and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to support Gaza’s children acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our words continue.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where helpers instruct us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought learning could change the world.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, learning environments and safety. Learning is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. Initially in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in this refugee settlement in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted apprehension. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions left standing in Gaza now. For this period, all has been unusual. The war has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, educational centers, hopes. Anxiety and sorrow are constant companions.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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