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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and raised my hand during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the war began. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others gripped each other. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The temporary partitions sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Energy access is fantasy and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some reach out when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist Gaza’s children learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the power fails or the airstrikes begin again but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: preserve our aspirations. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve books, learning environments and safety. Education is not an extravagance, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in the region for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in reality, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be dynamic. My teaching space was a area of amusement, creativity, and motion. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as inquisitiveness displaced fear. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, hopes. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Many of my learners are now dead – youth who talked about dreaming of physicians, painters, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the connectivity allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They ask if circumstances will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will persist.

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