In the heart of Gaza, where buildings lay in ruins and the air is heavy with dust and smoke, children are forced to grow up too fast. Childhood should be filled with play and laughter, but here, the youngest among us understand visceral fear and loss before experiencing friendship and trust.

I have learned so much from the children of Gaza, especially from my own young cousins after being displaced together and taking refuge in the same school shelter. These are their voices and dreams.

Wishing for shoes and chocolate

Taj, eight years old, sits on the cold floor of a school shelter, her tiny hands clutching a worn notebook. Every time she hears an explosion, she closes her eyes and scribbles a wish on one of the pages. “If I write it down, maybe it’ll come true,” she whispers to herself. Her dreams are simple: a new pair of shoes, a chance to go back to school, and to see her friends again.

Beside her, Mahmoud, a ten-year-old with wide eyes and a somber expression, shares his own dreams. “I wish I could play football again,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Not in the shelter, but on a real field.” His voice falters as he remembers his best friend Mohammed, who didn’t survive the last airstrike on Nuseirat camp. Mahmoud says: “I sometimes talk to him in my prayers. I ask him to save me a place in heaven, just in case.”

Their wishes are poignant, but their innocence also gives way to moments of unexpected humor. When asked what they would do if the war ended tomorrow, Taj chimes in: “I’d eat all the chocolate in the world. I mean, I’d probably get sick, but it’d be worth it!” She giggles sweetly and for a moment, the shelter is filled with a brightness that’s been missing for too long.

Imagining a city with where they sky doesn’t shake

The children’s imaginations have become a necessary source of escape from their reality. They talk about the “City of Dreams,” a place they’ve collectively conjured, where there’s no fear and where every child is free to laugh as loudly as they want. In this imaginary place, the streets are made from colorful stones, the sky is always blue, and there’s an expansive field where kids play without a care in the world, free from war or siege.

Youssef, a quiet boy of nine, offers a personal vision for the City of Dreams. “In my city, the sky doesn’t shake,” he shares. “And there are no loud explosions at night.” His friends nod, each adding details to their shared vision — a place where they are free to be children.

Taj closes her eyes and imagines herself in this City of Dreams, wearing a bright yellow dress and her hair tied with ribbons. She’s running down a street lined with trees, her laughter echoing around her. For a few seconds, she’s not in Gaza but in a peaceful world where her youthful laughter is the only sound.

Sometimes, the children’s coping mechanisms take the form of dark humor. They joke about “wish lists” for when peace finally arrives, lists filled with things most children anywhere else in the world would take for granted. “I want a day without hearing bombs,” says Mahmoud, laughing. “Or maybe a night where I don’t have to hide in a crowded school shelter.”

Taj chimes in with a smirk, “I just want to be bored for once. Not scared. Just bored!” They all laugh, the irony stark but their smiles genuine.

An unexpected visitor

One evening in October 2024, as the children huddle together, an aid worker named Fatima enters their shelter. She has a warm smile and arms full of things for the children:  a couple of coloring books, a few crayons, and some snacks like small cheese pastries. The children’s eyes light up as she hands each of them a small gift.

Fatima sits with them, listening as they share their visions of the City of Dreams. She nods, encouraging them to describe every detail.

Before Fatima leaves, she promises to bring more supplies next time. “Maybe one day, we’ll all go to this City of Dreams together,” she tells them with a wink. The children cheer, renewed by that hope.

Holding onto hope

The days drag on, each one bringing new challenges. But amidst the rubble and the endless genocide, these children identify small moments of joy. Mahmoud’s small and tattered football becomes their symbol of resilience. Every day, they kick it around the cramped space of the shelter, laughing and yelling as if they were on a real field. They share stories about their City of Dreams, building upon each other’s visions until the imaginary city feels almost real.

One day, as they play, an explosion rocks the ground nearby, and the children freeze. The game stops, and they huddle together in silence, waiting for the shaking to stop. In the silence that follows, Taj whispers, “One day, we’ll go to our City for real. We’ll be safe there.”

Despite the endless challenges, Fatima’s visits bring moments of relief. She brings the children more crayons, more paper to write down their dreams, and even a small pot of soil. “For planting seeds,” she explains, showing them how to nurture a tiny plant.

The children take turns watering the small seedling, watching as it begins to grow. For them, this plant becomes a symbol of hope — a fragile life pushing through the earth, determined to survive despite the odds. In the shelter’s dim light, they gather around their plant each night, whispering stories to it as if it, too, can feel their dreams.

As days turn into weeks, the children hold onto their visions of the City of Dreams. Their wishes may seem small, but they represent a longing for a life beyond survival. With every wish they write, every laugh they share, and every story they tell, they’re not just surviving — they’re defying the darkness around them.