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

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I listened to the morning bell at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; lessons, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a packed refuge in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Electricity is a dream and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my companions see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of pursuing pedagogy to support local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a young person in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our words continue.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I visit a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I lost my family member, his partner, and their children. I said goodbye to my beautiful city, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the international community, I state this: preserve our aspirations. Compassion isn't enough, we require steps. Young residents are entitled to literature, schools and protection. Schooling is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is children who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, 40, teacher in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I typically educated several sets of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds eager to learn.

Teaching them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor lives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My teaching space was a space of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We painted maps, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My learning center became a refuge for families running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are almost no educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every facet of our reality: security, dwellings, learning places, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who talked about aspiring to be medical professionals, artists, and teachers. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure malnutrition, eviction and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I hear from a few of them. They write questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share concise phrases, short lessons, small glimmers of connection amid the turmoil. They ask if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

All over Gaza, instructors, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or packed refuges. Learning has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “We persist.” And provided that we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

Numerous of us are also caregivers. I am a parent of {three|several