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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I was last inside a real classroom. Two years since I heard the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still clearly recall the sounds and smells: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my tent and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a minor in this region. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Sometimes, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who thought education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Young residents merit books, educational facilities and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for more than a decade. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced education should be full of life. My learning environment was a space of play, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness replaced fear. Certainly, even before the war, children in Gaza were always frightened. My classroom was a place of safety but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a refuge for families escaping the explosives. Soon, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are hardly any educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, homes, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – minors who talked about becoming medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and yet, they still cling to the desire for education.

Sometimes, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, instructor?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I state to them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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