As te rubble scatters and colors fade from the faces of childhood, the children of Gaza still cling to warm memories of their past days. They speak of their school desks as if they were a distant paradise—of science class, and of that quiet corner where they used to write their homework. In the midst of pain, these memories become whispered stories in their hearts, retold to survive moments of fear and separation.

Among the belongings of displacement, beneath a torn blanket, Reem keeps her school uniform clean despite the surrounding dust. She says in a soft voice, "I was going to wear it on the first day of school. I was ready... but the school is gone." Reem doesn't know if she'll ever return to class, but she refuses to lose her identity as a little girl who dreamed of success and decorated her notebook with red hearts.

The silence of children… a noise that cannot be heard Gaza’s children do not need many words to express their pain—their eyes say it all. They draw their missing friends’ faces on walls and turn destroyed food cans into makeshift toys to escape reality. They rarely ask questions or complain; they simply watch what’s left of the world through shattered windows and try to survive.

Memories that defy forgetting When night falls, the little ones begin telling stories that sound like fairytales. They talk about the morning lineup at school, about a friend who used to laugh a lot, and about the competition where they won a certificate of excellence. Each story is a kind of healing, and each memory is an attempt to connect the present to a past that now feels warmer than the present.

A childhood in search of life Despite the airstrikes and the hunger, Gaza’s children carry the seeds of life in their hearts. Their eyes still shine when they talk about "tomorrow," and their notebooks—though torn—still hold letters of light. They have no wings, but they fly with determination, dreaming of returning, resisting war with the hope of going back to class.