'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Youth and Educators on 24 Months Without Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I listened to the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the last day I entered the school building. That early hours, alert signals sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. 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 without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the gaps of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve lost all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to assist Gaza’s children study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to show the world what it means to be a young person in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where helpers teach us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the girl who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and relatives. I lost my family member, his wife, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I say this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. Young residents merit books, schools and safety. Schooling is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is children who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a piece of torn paper.

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

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been teaching in Gaza for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in Deir al-Balah, and presently in this refugee settlement in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the twinkle in a student’s eyes when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought learning should be dynamic. My classroom was a space of play, creativity, and movement. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always permeated the space as interest substituted fear. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for households escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any schools left standing in this area now. For two years, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, dwellings, learning places, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now deceased – children who talked about dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the entitlement to survival. Those who remain experience starvation, displacement and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the connectivity permits, I receive messages from a handful of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you safe, teacher?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I don’t know.

All over this territory, instructors, aid workers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or packed refuges. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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