'The loss of education is the loss of the future itself': Palestinian Children and Educators on Two Years Deprived of School.

'Our plea is for action, not compassion'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

For the past two years since I entered a learning environment. Two years since I heard the school chime at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Sometimes I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, laughter echoing down the halls. But my educational institution is gone; it was targeted not long after the war began. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That morning, warning alarms blared through the corridors. Some pupils sobbed, others held hands tightly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember longing for a ordinary day; teaching, intermission, a verse presentation. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the most painful deprivation of all is education, 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 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. Aspiration appears brittle.

At night, I observe the celestial bodies through the openings of my shelter and wonder if my peers see the identical heavens. Some contact me when they are able, saying they long for education and have retained their former exercise books; like valuables from a bygone era. I feel guilty because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once aspired to becoming a teacher to assist young residents study, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I dream of being a journalist – to draft, to communicate and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to tell our stories of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid loss and destruction, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning digitally. On other occasions, I go to a modest shelter where helpers teach us mathematics and language. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the bombing resumes but in those moments, I experience vitality. I remember who I was: the student who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, educational institutions and kin. I lost my paternal relative, his wife, and their offspring. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Young residents deserve literature, learning environments and security. Learning is not an extravagance, it is a essential privilege. Gaza is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping amid unmanned aircraft at darkness. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if the sole items remaining is a broken pencil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

Naglaa Weshah, 40, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach multiple groups of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals enthusiastic about knowledge.

Instructing them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recall the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a new idea clicked; the type of instance every teacher strives for.

I always believed education should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced anxiety. Yes, even prior to conflict, local youth were always scared. My learning environment was a protected zone but after the seventh, the situation transformed.

My school became a safe haven for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in Gaza now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our reality: security, dwellings, educational centers, dreams. Fear and grief are constant companions.

Many of my learners are now deceased – minors who spoke of becoming doctors, creatives, and instructors. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with hunger, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still cling to the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the internet allows, I receive messages from a handful of them. They write questioning: “Are you OK, teacher?” We share brief words, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the chaos. They inquire if circumstances will ever return to usual. I inform them I am uncertain.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, volunteers and organizations endeavor education in all available spaces: in tents, damaged classrooms, or crowded shelters. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to declare: “We are still here.” And as long as we keep acquiring knowledge, we will persist.

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