'When education is lost, the future vanishes': Palestinian Children and Teachers on 24 Months Deprived of School.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I entered a proper school. Two years since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: powder from the board, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my learning place was destroyed; it was bombed soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and companions perished.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the last day I attended classes. That beginning of the day, alert signals blared through the passageways. Some children cried, others held hands tightly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember wishing for a routine day; lessons, break time, a poem recital. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my guardians, male relatives and sister in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, failing to insulate. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At evening, I look up at the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and wonder if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they manage, saying they yearn for classes and have preserved their old notebooks; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support young residents study, even when life was hard. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a minor in the Strip. I want to share our experiences of apprehension and need, but also courage. Because even in this place, amid loss and destruction, our voices refuse to be silent.

When online access exists, I try to study via the web. Other times, I visit a small tent where volunteers instruct us arithmetic and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the power fails or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I sense being. I recall who I was: the young woman who adored mathematics and poetry, who thought knowledge could alter reality.

The war has taken so much; our residences, learning centers and families. I mourned my uncle, his partner, and their young ones. I forfeited my beautiful city, Rafah, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is learning, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, educational facilities and protection. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not merely devastation; it is youth who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my narrative and I will persist in composing, even if my only possessions 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 instructing in the region for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in Deir al-Balah, and currently in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a student’s eyes when a concept was understood; the type of instance every teacher cherishes.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, creativity, and activity. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Laughter always filled the room as inquisitiveness displaced anxiety. Certainly, even in earlier times, children in Gaza were always scared. My classroom was a place of safety but after 7 October, all was altered.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households fleeing the bombs. Soon, it was attacked and completely destroyed. There are hardly any schools still erect in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The conflict has shattered every facet of our reality: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are ever-present realities.

Many of my students are now deceased – youth who mentioned aspiring to be doctors, artists, and instructors. They were deprived even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, relocation and fatigue – and however, they still cling to the desire for education.

At times, when the online access allows, I hear from a handful of them. They message inquiring: “How are you, instructor?” We communicate short messages, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of contact amid the turmoil. They question if things will ever go back to normal. I tell them I am uncertain.

Across Gaza, educators, volunteers and charities attempt instruction wherever possible: in temporary structures, destroyed learning spaces, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to declare: “We persist.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several