'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Educators on Two Years Deprived of Education.

'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

Juwayriya Adwan, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I stepped into a real classroom. That long since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck soon after the hostilities erupted. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the concluding day I attended classes. That early hours, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a routine day; teaching, recess, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I reside with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions move with air currents, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and seclusion is unavailable. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the holes of my tent and question if my peers see the comparable vista. Some reach out when they are able, stating they miss school and have preserved their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to show the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. Other times, I go to a small tent where aid workers educate us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their children. I lost my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I express this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children are entitled to texts, educational facilities and safety. Education is not optional, it is a basic right. This region is not only destruction; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at darkness. It is my account and I will continue writing, even if my only possessions is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. First in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in the central camp in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I typically educated six classes of about 40 students each, nearly 240 young minds keen on education.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every instructor strives for.

I always thought education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always permeated the space as interest displaced fear. Yes, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a shelter for relatives fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in the region now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The war has destroyed every part of our lives: protection, homes, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now lost – children who talked about becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and however, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a handful of them. They write inquiring: “Are you OK, educator?” We communicate brief words, short lessons, small glimmers of contact amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, teachers, aid workers and charities try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And provided that we continue learning, we will persist.

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