My first graders’ potluck breakfast on World Children’s Day. Photo: Donya Abu Sitta

I woke up precisely at 5 a.m. to the sound of airplanes tearing through the silence of dawn. This sound has become my daily alarm, signaling the start of another day filled with anxiety. I crept into the kitchen and started washing the dishes with cold water. As the aroma of cardamom filled the air, I made two cups of tea in an attempt to add some warmth to this gloomy morning. I drank tea with my mother, whose eyes were so sorrowful they could drown a city, and then I dressed and walked the 30 minutes to the kindergarten in Hope neighborhood, in the center of Khan Younis, where I saw streets lined with demolished homes and faces in need.

I welcomed my students, the first graders, with a smile I tried to make bright. How could they deserve all this suffering? The echo of their words on World Children’s Day, Nov. 20, 2024, still resonates in my ears.

The Gaza Strip was groaning under the weight of famine, just like now. I wanted to paint some joy on their faces, so I planned a special day, and put them to work.

Each child brought whatever food they could from home to share in a communal Palestinian breakfast. We spread out the keffiyehs on the tables, placed thyme, a couple of rare tomatoes, za’atar, tea, and bread (low-quality bread since flour was unavailable). The place was filled with the scent of the past, and the song “Salam to Gaza” played in the background, a melody that touched our hearts.

My little ones were superheroes, racing to help. Saba, Judy, Suha, and Noor arranged the chairs, while Yahya and Marwan returned to their houses near the kindergarten to bring the plates, and Yahya brought the teapot.

While I was tidying up the place, I overheard a conversation between Marwan, Ibrahim, and Abdulaziz.

Marwan asked, “Did you go to Takiyya today?” Abdulaziz replied affirmatively, but Ibrahim asked in surprise, “Did the people of Takiyya cook today?” He was referring to an improvised soup kitchen that some people had set up.

They responded, “Yes, they cooked.”

I overheard him whisper, “I want to tell the teacher that I want to go get some food from Takiyya, and then I’ll come back to class to share it.”

I felt a shock that shook my being. How could I respond to this request? Should I let him go out when it is unsafe, or deny him this rare meal?

Endless questions gnawed at me, but Marwan and Abdulaziz saved me by saying, “They already served all the food they had.” I felt a pain crushing my heart and a sorrow for their stolen childhood. How can we celebrate World Children’s Day while their childhood is being stolen before our eyes?

In the corner of the classroom, Baraa and Youssef were standing, two brothers who fled from northern Gaza to Khan Younis, then Rafah, and then returned to Khan Younis. The signs of exhaustion are etched on their small faces. Their mother told me earlier how they often stand for hours under the scorching sun, filling water jars for their family.

Baraa asks, “Youssef, did you bring drinking water today?”

“Yes, I brought it,” Youssef replies in a tired voice.

“Thank God, because I never got my turn,” adds Baraa, his eyes shining with a sad glimmer. Here, I feel the bitterness of injustice choking me. How are these children deprived of their most basic rights, even on World Children’s Day?

I invite them to sit down and eat, but before that, I ask my students to share their dreams with me, what they want to become when they grow up.

Fouad holds the card reading “International Children’s Rights Day,” with Omar sitting on the chair in my classroom. Photo: Donya Abu Sitta

“I want to become an engineer,” says Rayan, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm, “to rebuild our homes that were destroyed by the occupation.” He draws me a blueprint of the home he had and explains how they will build a new house after the war, with his father, an engineer, helping him.

“I want to become a doctor,” says Zakaria, “to treat war casualties and not let there be a shortage of doctors during wars.”

“I want to become a teacher like my father,” says Iyad.

“I am a journalist like my father,” says Yahya, “to tell the world our stories and struggles.”

“I am a lawyer,” says Jude.

“I am a teacher,” says Suha.

“I am a painter,” Maryam says.

“I’m a doctor,” Youssef says.

Then it was Marwan’s turn, and he surprised us all by saying, “I want to be a bear! I love eating so much.”

The room erupted in laughter, our voices blending together, and we ate.

When we finished our meal, I gave each child a piece of paper with “Happy Children’s Day” written on it. Rayan’s mother had sent him with biscuits. We drank tea and sang. Each child expressed their dreams in a drawing. Boys drew footballs, dogs, and toy cars; girls drew dolls, cats, and flowers. I collected the drawings and kept them with me. We laughed a lot that day, and then we all went home, happy for the break from the misery of the ongoing war.

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