'Without education, we lose our future': Palestinian Children and Educators on 24 Months Without Education.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the start-of-class signal at the institution I attended, took my seat and participated actively during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my educational institution is gone; it was struck soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the last day I went to school. That morning, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

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

Now I reside with my mother and father, male relatives and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and privacy doesn’t exist. Aspiration appears brittle.

At darkness, I observe the stars through the openings of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they are able, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when life was hard. Now I hope for being a writer – to draft, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to tell our stories of anxiety and deprivation, but also courage. Because even here, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When online access exists, I attempt learning online. Sometimes, I attend a modest shelter where aid workers educate us arithmetic and Arabic. The instruction is limited – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in such times, I sense being. I recall who I was: the student who adored mathematics and poetry, who was convinced knowledge could alter reality.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our dwellings, educational institutions and relatives. I lost my uncle, his spouse, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is merely debris now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the world, I say this: keep our hopes alive. We seek no sympathy, we want action. The youth deserve literature, schools and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is youth who persist in hoping beneath the drones at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, 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 al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in the region for more than a decade. Originally in Khan Younis, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Prior to hostilities, I regularly instructed several sets of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a knowledge was acquired; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and movement. We painted maps, performed past occurrences, and converted teaching into tales.

Joy always occupied the area as curiosity substituted anxiety. Indeed, even before the war, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a protected zone but after that day, everything changed.

My learning center became a safe haven for families fleeing the explosives. Soon, it was targeted and entirely ruined. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in this area now. For two years, everything has been abnormal. The war has destroyed every aspect of our reality: protection, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

A significant number of my students are now deceased – minors who talked about becoming physicians, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain experience hunger, eviction and exhaustion – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, when the internet permits, I receive messages from a few of them. They contact inquiring: “Are you OK, instructor?” We communicate short messages, miniature instruction, tiny sparks of interaction amid the turmoil. They ask if things will ever return to usual. I tell them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, helpers and non-profits attempt instruction in all available spaces: in tents, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “Our presence continues.” And so long as we persist in education, we will endure.

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