'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Children and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of Education.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a normal day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they manage, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to pursuing pedagogy to help Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to talk and to reveal the world what it represents to be a young person in this region. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in such times, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and relatives. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve literature, learning environments and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not merely devastation; it is minors who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and movement. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted apprehension. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, all was altered.

My educational institution became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has shattered every facet of our lives: protection, residences, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the entitlement to survival. Those who are still here experience hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the will to learn.

At times, when the online access enables, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I don’t know.

All over this territory, teachers, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in any feasible location: in shelters, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Education has become an act of defiance, 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 parents. I am a mother of {three|several