To the world where children are preparing to open their new books and start the new school year, going to school in safety, I write this story as a journalist accustomed to telling people’s stories, and as a father deprived of the most basic right of fatherhood: to see his five children walk to school in Gaza with peace of mind:

Gaza: no school, broken futures

In Gaza, school is no longer a building with walls and doors, but has become a distant dream, haunted by a childhood threatened with loss.

As I write, I feel that the words are no longer just letters on paper, but tears falling on the page, as if I were writing a personal letter to the world: Take a moment from the luxury of your schools and give it to the children of Gaza, so that they may know the taste of hope, even if only for a day.

I am a journalist from Gaza. I have written a lot about people, about children who lost their schools and dreams in the turmoil of war, about young children who carried their torn notebooks under the rubble, and about eyes searching for a window of light in the darkness. I wrote about all of them, not realizing that I was also writing about my five children.

It was as if I had been writing a mirror of my pain all along, but I hid my children’s faces between the lines. When I look at them and remember their situation, I realize that every story I told about the children of Gaza was nothing but a chapter of our own story.

I dreamed of a distinguished educational future for them. I followed them year after year, waiting for the back-to-school season to prepare for them what they desired: new backpacks, colored pens, neat clothes, and small wishes floating innocently on their faces. But war took us by surprise, tearing their notebooks apart before their dreams were erased, and wasting two whole years of their childhood without education, without classes, without the school bell.

And now I search among them for remnants of that dream, but all that remains are memories of images: a smile with a new pen, or a small hand turning the pages of a book full of promises. Memory alone has become their school, and I alone have become the teacher who can only tell them stories instead of opening the doors of classrooms for them.

Dima: the postponed dream of university

My eldest daughter, Dima (15), I was waiting for her to reach high school, to see her pave her way to university so I could be proud of her like any father in the world. But instead of accompanying her to the classroom, today I see her sitting in a displacement tent, trying to hide her tears as she whispers: “Dad… will I be able to continue my studies?”

I hear her question echoing inside me at night like an absent school bell. I try to smile and tell her, “You will continue,” but my voice betrays me. How can I reassure her when all I have is my pen, while all the roads to school are blocked by rubble?

Ibada: the little support

As for Ibada (13 years old), I saw him as the next support. Every year, he amazed me with his love of learning and his early maturity, as if he were an extension of my heart and mind. Today, he stands before me with confused eyes, asking about his lost books, his school that has been reduced to rubble, and his future that lies lost among the rubble of schools.

As I look at him, I feel that the war has not only stolen his books, but also his certainty about the future. His voice, which used to be full of enthusiasm, has become hoarse with waiting, as if he is growing up before his time, carrying the burdens of adults while still a child.

Salah and Abdullah: innocence lost

Salah (12) and Abdullah (10) were the mirror of childhood in my home. Their laughter on the way to school and their running on the way back gave me the feeling that life was still possible despite the war. Today, that innocence has been stolen from them, and they play in the corridors of displacement instead of schoolyards.

Sometimes I see them making pens out of stones and a small blackboard out of dirt, writing their names on it and then quickly erasing them, as if they are trying to tell the world: “When the school doors are closed, playing becomes a lesson, and dreams become a pen and a blackboard.”

Lina: a child without a seat

What breaks my heart the most is my little girl, Lina (6 years old). She has never been to school, but today she is registered on paper as a second-grade student. She grows up year after year, but she still doesn’t know what a school desk looks like, or what a clean book untouched by war looks like. This alone is enough to leave a father like me in a state of fatal helplessness: how can I write about the children of Gaza when my own child has never been to school?

When I look at her, I feel that her entire childhood is being silently assassinated. She is growing up outside of school, like a flower without water, and her pain alone is enough to fill a thousand news reports. But all I can do is carry her silence and broadcast it to the world.

A father dreams of a school bell

Today, my biggest dream as a father and husband is for my children to return to school. I don’t dream of luxury or a distant future, just to see them carrying their notebooks and backpacks, sitting among their peers, and hearing the bell ring on a normal day instead of sirens.

I dream a dream that seems trivial in the eyes of others: to wake up early to accompany my children to school, to see them running ahead of me with quick steps, arriving a little late for the bell, and returning with beautiful mischief. It is a simple dream, but for me it is a whole life.

I have written a lot about the stories of Gaza’s children, but my story with my five children remains the most painful. In this war, education is no longer a right, but a dream, a dream that swings between the rubble of schools and the sound of planes, a small dream that is worth the whole world.

So, world, take a moment from your children’s laughter and give it to our children, so that their notebooks may be filled with letters again, not dust. In Gaza, education is no longer just a right, it is a whole life. A life we want for our children, and a dream we hope you will wake up with us to achieve.

Is there anyone who will answer?

Featured image and additional images supplied

By Alaa Shamali

This post was originally published on Canary.