'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Youth and Educators on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I was last inside a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on 7 October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; instruction, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the holes of my shelter and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, saying they long for education and have preserved their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a small tent where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I feel alive. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story 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?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of play, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always filled the room as inquisitiveness substituted fear. Yes, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My school became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has broken every part of our existence: protection, dwellings, educational centers, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who survive endure hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the internet enables, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

Across Gaza, educators, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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