'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Children and Teachers on 24 Months Without Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I was last inside a proper school. That long since I heard the school chime at my former school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed shortly after the hostilities erupted. My textbooks turned to ash, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the openings of my tent and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have preserved their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once envisioned pursuing pedagogy to support young residents acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I hope for being a journalist – to compose, to talk and to show the world what it means to be a minor in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself online. Other times, I attend a small tent where volunteers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our dwellings, educational institutions and families. I mourned my uncle, his wife, and their young ones. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I state this: keep our hopes alive. We don’t want pity, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit literature, schools and safety. Learning is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not just ruins; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a scrap of damaged material.

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

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in this area for over ten years. Initially in Khan Younis, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the heart of the region. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor cherishes.

I always was convinced 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.

Laughter always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, young residents were always scared. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Not long later, it was struck and totally demolished. There are hardly any schools still erect in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our lives: safety, residences, learning places, hopes. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be physicians, artists, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here experience hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact asking: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

All over this territory, educators, volunteers and organizations try to teach in any feasible location: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

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