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

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, Khan Younis

It has been two years since I entered a learning environment. That long since I listened to the school chime at my former school, took my seat and participated actively during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was targeted not long after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I reside with my parents, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in Khan Younis. The shelter coverings sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We queue for nourishment and hydration. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they can, expressing they miss school and have kept their former exercise books; like relics of a vanished time. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to talk and to reveal the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study digitally. On other occasions, I attend a tiny space where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the electricity cuts out or the bombing resumes but in these instances, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I mourned my family member, his spouse, and their offspring. I forfeited my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. The territory is not just ruins; it is minors who continue to aspire amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

'Students ask: "Teacher, are you safe?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in al-Bureij camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I typically educated multiple groups of about dozens of learners, almost two hundred forty individuals eager to learn.

Educating them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a student’s eyes when a new idea clicked; the sort of occasion every educator cherishes.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of recreation, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, performed past occurrences, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as curiosity substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a shelter for households escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has destroyed every aspect of our lives: security, residences, educational centers, dreams. Anxiety and sorrow are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – children who spoke of aspiring to be medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were deprived even the privilege of living. Those who are still here live with malnutrition, relocation and exhaustion – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever return to usual. I inform them I don’t know.

All over Gaza, instructors, aid workers and charities try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will remain.

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