Eman tries to reassure her students that school is a safe place, despite everything that is happening outside. Photo: Taqwa Al-Wawi

Israel’s attacks have robbed children in Gaza of their right to play safely, their right to a stable family life, their right to sleep without fear, and their rights to protection from violence, to express themselves freely, to get an education, and to hope for the future.

For two years now, Israel has mercilessly targeted children in its genocidal campaign in Gaza. By October 2025, Israeli attacks had killed at least 20,000 Palestinian children, with Save the Children reporting “one child killed every hour” during the peak of the violence. In August 2025, UNICEF said that Gaza has “the highest per capita rate of childhood amputations in the world” and in November reported 67 children have been killed during the ceasefire.

Gaza is enduring an ongoing genocide. Israeli attacks turn children’s playgrounds into rubble, their schools into ruins. Israeli forces strike homes, schools and hospitals, exposing children to death and injury while the governments of the developed world remain passive. Children in Gaza live through a continuous campaign of violence, witnessing their childhood vanish before their eyes. 

I keep asking myself: What kind of coldness shivers through a soldier’s heart when they aim their gun at a child’s head and pull the trigger? Do world leaders and decision makers not have children? How do they sleep while the children of Gaza die because of their inaction? Where is their conscience? 

I met Eman, an English teacher, and some of her students (who range in age from 7 to 16 years) in a tent classroom. She focuses on developing their four language skills—reading, writing, listening, and speaking—delivering lessons in a simple way and creating a safe classroom environment that allows students to learn despite the difficult conditions in Gaza.

As is to be expected from their ages, some have stronger English language skills than others. Eman speaks softly but with a quiet strength. “Sometimes students can focus,” she says, “but in Gaza, under the constant shadow of genocide, getting them to pay attention is a real challenge. Many of them carry the fear of bombings in their hearts, or grief from losing loved ones. It’s hard for them to stay fully present in class.” She says they all have a strong desire to learn despite the circumstances.

Arwa, 7, sits on the edge of a broken chair. Her legs are too short to touch the floor. “I want to go to school, but the Israeli army bombed all the schools. There aren’t many schools left now, and the few that are still standing are full of families. I just want to sit at a real desk again.”

Ismail, 10, speaks slowly, measuring each word. “The Israeli genocide stole our childhood,” he says. “They destroyed schools, playgrounds and even our food supplies. There is no safety anywhere. I wake up afraid of the next bombing.”

Mutaz, Arwa’s twin, draws invisible shapes on the dusty floor. “I want to play, but the Israeli planes bomb the streets. Even a football game can get someone killed. So I stay inside. The tent is my whole world now.”

Ahmed, 10, remembers Gaza before the genocide and his face softens. “Every morning, I wore my school uniform, my sister packed my lunch, and my father drove me to school. On the way, we bought falafel. The streets smelled like life, full of laughter and sunlight.”

Ismail’s voice trembles as he talks about his father. “On June 19, 2025, my father went to get bread when we had nothing left. The Israeli army targeted him. They called them ‘aid checkpoints,’ but they kill people. A bullet hit my father in the back and reached his heart. He never came home.”

Arwa’s fear returns at night. “I can’t sleep. Every time Israeli fighter jets fly above, I run to my mother. I’m afraid she will die. I’m afraid my father will die. I’m afraid my brother will die. My uncle already died in the bombings. We cried for him and I’m scared it will happen again.”

Ahmed now lives in fear. “The Israeli army bombed our house. My grandfather was badly injured—he lost his leg and fractured his skull. Three months later, he died. I can still hear the ambulance sirens. I still feel my body shaking inside it. That day will never leave me.” Other family members were injured too—burns, broken bones, wounds that never healed. “Every corner of my family carries pain now,” he says quietly.

Ismail remembers displacement. “When the bombing forced us to flee, my father always led the way. He found trucks, carried our things and kept us safe. The last time, Israel killed him before he could protect us. My mother shook with fear. That was the hardest journey—because he wasn’t there.”

Now Ismail and his family live in a tent in central Gaza. “Two years without school. The Israeli army cut off the internet. I miss my father every day. When I carry water, when I protect my brothers, when I see my mother crying, I feel his absence. He was the pillar of our life. Now I am the oldest. I have to be the pillar.”

He lifts his head, determined. “One day I will be an architect. I will rebuild Gaza from the ground up. From zero. For him. For us.”

He says, “When the ceasefire was announced, I sat quietly with my mom and siblings. Suddenly, my little brother shouted, ‘The genocide is over!’ He cried because our father did not come back. We all cried with him. It was a moment I will never forget.”

Mutaz insists on learning. “We study in tents. It’s not a school, just cloth and sand. I want to read and write. That is my future. I want to be an astronaut, to fly above all this.”

Ahmed allows himself to imagine a future. “I want to be a businessman, to open factories, to make Gaza strong. Most of all, I want Israel to stop bombing us. I want the genocide to end. I want to go back to school, to laugh with my friends, to wake up without fear of the sky.”

Eman pauses, thinking about the children in her classroom. “Distraction has become normal here. Some students show their fear openly. Others try to hold themselves together, but you can see the anxiety in their eyes, even in their silence.”

Ahmed remembers, “When the genocide ended, I went outside to celebrate with the children in my neighborhood. Some were giving out sweets, and some fired shots into the air to celebrate. Mosques rang with prayers and chants. It was a moment of hope after years of fear.”

Eman’s role as a teacher has changed in ways she never expected. “I’m not just teaching anymore. I’m responsible for protecting these small hearts that are trying to hold onto life. I try to be a source of reassurance and trust, to create an environment where students feel that school, despite everything happening outside, is still their safe home.”

Eman’s voice carries determination as she reflects on her mission. “In Gaza, education is not only about knowledge. It’s about hope, resilience and giving children a space to feel human amidst the genocide. Every day I see them fight to focus, to smile, to keep going—and that fight inspires me as much as I hope I inspire them.”

From Ismail’s vow to rebuild Gaza from rubble to Ahmed’s longing for mornings free of fear, the children of Gaza are calling out to the world. They ask for safety, schools that stand, streets where they can play, and a chance to simply be children. Israel’s attacks steal these rights every day, killing, wounding and traumatizing them. How long will the world watch while children die? How long will bombs decide their future? The time to act is now—to stop the planes that kill, halt the bombs that destroy and end the blockade and mass starvation. The measure of your humanity is not in mourning the children of Gaza after they die, but in protecting them while they still live.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.