'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Children and Teachers on Two Years Without Education.

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been two years since I stepped into a learning environment. That long since I heard the start-of-class signal at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and raised my hand during my beloved lesson. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the familiar scents and noises: powder from the board, pencil shavings, joyful sounds in corridors. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted soon after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in elementary level on that fateful day: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the corridors. Some students wept, others clasped palms firmly. Our teacher tried to calm us, but even her voice trembled. I remember hoping for a normal day; instruction, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day became the last page of my previous existence.

The war has taken so much. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

Now I live with my parents, siblings and sister in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, providing no climate control. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and privacy doesn’t exist. Hope feels fragile.

At evening, I observe the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and question if my friends see the same sky. Some message me when they are able, saying they yearn for classes and have retained their previous journals; like relics of a vanished time. I feel guilty because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I dream of being a writer – to write, to communicate and to demonstrate the world what it represents to be a minor in this region. I want to share our experiences of fear and hunger, but also courage. Because even here, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study digitally. Other times, I go to a modest shelter where volunteers educate us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the airstrikes begin again but in those moments, I sense being. I remember who I was: the girl who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed knowledge could alter reality.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our residences, schools and relatives. I grieved for my family member, his partner, and their young ones. I lost my cherished hometown, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is education, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

To the global audience, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. Compassion isn't enough, we want action. The youth merit texts, schools and security. Learning is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. 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, instructor in central Gaza

I have been educating in the region for over ten years. Initially in that urban area, then in another location, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. Before the war started, I regularly instructed six classes of about dozens of learners, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in reality, and I still remember the gleam in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every teacher cherishes.

I always was convinced learning should be vibrant. My classroom was a zone of recreation, creativity, and activity. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always filled the room as interest displaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always afraid. My teaching space was a protected zone but after that day, the situation transformed.

My learning center became a refuge for households running from the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are hardly any learning institutions remaining intact in Gaza now. For this period, nothing has been normal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my pupils are now lost – children who spoke of becoming doctors, artists, and teachers. They were refused even the privilege of living. Those who remain endure hunger, displacement and weariness – and nevertheless, they still cling to the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the online access enables, I hear from a handful of them. They contact questioning: “How are you, teacher?” We share short messages, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if things will ever go back to normal. I inform them I don’t know.

Across the region, educators, aid workers and organizations try to teach in all available spaces: in temporary structures, ruined educational areas, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an gesture of resistance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we persist in education, we will remain.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a guardian of {three|several