'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Children and Teachers on Two Years Deprived of Education.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

For the past 24 months since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, sat at my desk and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, alert signals sounded through the corridors. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, siblings and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings flap in the wind, failing to insulate. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At night, I observe the night lights through the holes of my tent and wonder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to communicate and to reveal the world what it represents to be a minor in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When there’s some internet, I attempt learning digitally. Other times, I attend a tiny space where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the girl who adored mathematics and poetry, who believed learning could change the world.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, schools and relatives. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. The youth are entitled to books, schools and protection. Learning is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not merely devastation; it is youth who continue to aspire under aerial surveillance at night. It is my account and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

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

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in Gaza for over ten years. Initially in a southern city, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced instruction should be dynamic. My teaching space was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Merriment always occupied the area as interest replaced apprehension. Certainly, even prior to conflict, children in Gaza were always afraid. My classroom was a secure location but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for relatives running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was struck and entirely ruined. There are very few schools remaining intact in this area now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has broken every part of our reality: security, residences, schools, aspirations. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my pupils are now dead – minors who spoke of becoming medical professionals, painters, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure hunger, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity allows, I get in touch with a small number of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We exchange concise phrases, miniature instruction, small glimmers of contact amid the chaos. They ask if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach in any feasible location: in tents, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Education has become an gesture of resistance, a way to declare: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

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