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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and participated actively during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the final day I entered the school building. That morning, air raid sirens sounded through the corridors. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and sister in a packed refuge in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a child in this region. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who loved numbers and poems, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Gaza’s children are entitled to books, educational facilities and security. Schooling is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still remember the twinkle in a learner's look when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be full of life. My teaching space was a area of recreation, art, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Indeed, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for relatives escaping the aerial attacks. Soon, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any educational facilities still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: safety, homes, learning places, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – youth who mentioned becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and exhaustion – and yet, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

All over the region, instructors, aid workers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several