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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, a temporary shelter

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. Sometimes I still vividly remember the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My textbooks turned to ash, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I entered the school building. That early hours, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a ordinary day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, two brothers and female sibling in a congested safe space in al-Mawasi. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We queue for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my tent and question if my companions see the same sky. Some reach out when they manage, expressing they long for education and have kept their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to assist young residents acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a reporter – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our words continue.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recollect who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, schools and families. I mourned my family member, his wife, and their children. I forfeited my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is merely debris now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the world, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Young residents are entitled to texts, schools and security. Education is not a luxury, it is a essential privilege. This region is not only destruction; it is youth who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my narrative 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, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been teaching in the region for a substantial period. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always believed education should be full of life. My teaching space was a space of recreation, art, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always occupied the area as interest replaced fear. Indeed, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My teaching space was a secure location but after 7 October, all was altered.

My learning center became a refuge for families escaping the aerial attacks. Shortly after, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: safety, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

A significant number of my learners are now lost – youth who spoke of dreaming of medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

At times, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, teacher?” We communicate concise phrases, miniature instruction, minor flashes of connection amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I state to them I am uncertain.

Throughout the region, teachers, helpers and non-profits endeavor education wherever possible: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or packed refuges. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we continue learning, we will remain.

A significant number of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several