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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and raised my hand during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my learning place was destroyed; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the corridors. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; instruction, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings move with air currents, providing no climate control. We wait in line for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers educate us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. The territory is not only destruction; it is minors who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I used to teach several sets of about fourty pupils per class, nearly 240 young minds enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every teacher cherishes.

I always thought learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The conflict has broken every part of our existence: safety, residences, schools, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my learners are now lost – youth who mentioned dreaming of medical professionals, creatives, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who survive experience malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if situations will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, teachers, helpers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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