'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on 24 Months Without School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still clearly recall the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, warning alarms screamed through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. 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 guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The temporary partitions move with air currents, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to write, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. Sometimes, I go to a small tent where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in such times, I feel alive. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his spouse, and their young ones. I lost my beautiful city, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. The youth merit literature, educational facilities and safety. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I regularly instructed multiple groups of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in life, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every instructor lives for.

I always was convinced learning should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of play, art, and activity. We painted maps, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity displaced fear. Indeed, even before the war, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households fleeing the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any learning institutions still erect in Gaza now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, residences, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who mentioned dreaming of physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the online access enables, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They ask if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I have no answer.

Throughout the region, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also parents. I am a guardian of {three|several