'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Youth and Teachers on 24 Months Without School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, sat at my desk and answered questions during my beloved lesson. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, sharpener leftovers, cheerful echoes. But my learning place was destroyed; it was targeted soon after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in fifth grade on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the halls. Some students wept, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember longing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, providing no climate control. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I gaze toward the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some message me when they manage, saying they long for education and have kept their old notebooks; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel remorseful because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to assist local youth acquire knowledge, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to talk and to show the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I endeavor to educate myself via the web. On other occasions, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I sense being. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced learning could change the world.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, educational institutions and families. I lost my paternal relative, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve literature, schools and protection. Education is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. Gaza is not only destruction; it is youth who still dream amid unmanned aircraft at night. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if all I have left is a broken pencil and a piece of torn paper.

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

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I typically educated six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Instructing them was my vocation and delight in life, and I still recall the twinkle in a pupil's gaze when a knowledge was acquired; the sort of occasion every teacher strives for.

I always thought education should be full of life. My learning environment was a zone of amusement, aesthetics, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and converted teaching into tales.

Merriment always occupied the area as curiosity replaced apprehension. Certainly, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after 7 October, everything changed.

My educational institution became a refuge for households fleeing the aerial attacks. Not long later, it was struck and completely destroyed. There are very few learning institutions still erect in the region now. For 24 months, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every facet of our existence: security, residences, schools, dreams. Fear and grief are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my students are now lost – children who talked about aspiring to be doctors, painters, and educators. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain live with hunger, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Occasionally, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, abbreviated teaching, small glimmers of interaction amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I tell them I have no answer.

Across this territory, instructors, aid workers and organizations attempt instruction in all available spaces: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will endure.

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