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

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

It has been 24 months since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: writing residue, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, warning alarms blared through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, expressing they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist young residents learn, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I go to a modest shelter where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their children. I forfeited my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children deserve books, schools and protection. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at darkness. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if the sole items remaining 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. Originally in a southern city, then in a different town, and now 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 keen on education.

Instructing them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still recall the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always thought education should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Merriment always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Yes, even before the war, children in Gaza were always afraid. My teaching space was a place of safety but after the seventh, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for families running from the aerial attacks. Soon, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few schools remaining intact in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The conflict has broken every part of our reality: security, homes, schools, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now dead – children who mentioned aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who survive experience starvation, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They message questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of interaction amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Education has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to express: “We persist.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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