A Day in the Life: Through the Eyes of a Child in War

  What  I still Dream About     Even though the war is over, it lives in my dreams. I still   remember the sound of bombs and fear in my mother's eyes. I   dream of playing outside without hiding, of going to school   without sirens. sometimes I wake up thinking I'm back in the   shelter. But also dream of peace-of running in the open, of   running in the open, of laughter without fear. I hold onto these   dreams, because they give me hope for a better tomorrow.

  Surviving the Silence Between the Bombs Running, Hiding, Surviving: Life in the Shadow of War War strips away normalcy. For many, survival means constant movement — running from bombings, hiding from enemies, and clinging to hope. Families are torn apart. Children grow up too fast. Every day becomes a fight to stay alive, to protect loved ones, and to hold on to humanity in a world that feels shattered. In war zones, survival isn't bravery — it's necessity. And behind every survivor is a story the world must not forget .

   When the Sky Cracked and My World Shattered . It was a regular morning, and I was brushing my teeth when suddenly the windows started shaking violently, and a loud roar filled the air, like the sky was tearing apart. Baba shouted for us to get down, and my heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I didn’t understand what was happening—everything was confusing and scary. Dust filled the air, and I could hear people screaming and crying outside. I clutched my backpack, still hoping we were going to school, but instead, we ran, ran as fast as we could down the street filled with smoke and fire. I looked back and saw flames coming out of the building where my cousin lived, but I never saw him again. I left my drawing notebook on my desk, the one with all my rockets and planets, thinking I’d be back soon to finish my pictures. But there was no going back. That day, I realized the world had changed forever. This was not a game. This was real, and it was terrifying. .

  Before the Sky Fell My name is Sami, and I’m 10 years old. I lived in a small yellow house with green shutters, right by a big fig tree that smelled sweet in the spring. Every morning, the sun would shine through my window, and I could hear birds chirping and neighbors chatting as Mama cooked eggs and fresh flatbread for breakfast. I would race my little sister to the kitchen table, giggling as we tried to be the first to grab the warm bread. At school, my favorite subject was art because I loved to draw rockets and planets, imagining one day I might fly to the stars. My best friend Yara and I shared candies and secrets during recess, and sometimes we played soccer in the dusty yard. My teacher, Mr. Karim, had a funny laugh and always encouraged us to dream big. Life was noisy and messy and full of laughter, like the endless summer days I wished could last forever. But that week, something felt different—the sky was quieter, and the air felt heavy. I noticed Mama hugging us tight...