Trauma at Schools in South Lebanon

The day it happened, the sun was shining through the windows of our classroom in South Lebanon. We were learning about similes—how to compare one thing to another using “like” or “as.” Our teacher had just written on the board: “My heart beats like a drum.”

I never knew how real that sentence could feel until the moment we heard the roar in the sky.

It started low, like the humming of bees far away. But it grew louder, heavier, until it didn’t sound like a machine anymore—it sounded like fear itself. Then, just outside the school wall, a thunderous explosion. The building shook. The windows trembled. And so did we.

Some of my classmates screamed. Others froze. I dropped my pencil and curled under the desk, just as we had practiced in emergency drills we hoped we’d never need.

But this wasn’t a drill.

A motorcycle had been targeted by an Israeli drone just outside our school. Two young men were killed instantly. Shattered glass sprayed over our schoolyard. Smoke twisted into the air, darkening the sky. Our noses filled with the smell of burning. It wasn’t just metal. It was something worse—something that told us life had just been taken.

That day, the classroom stopped being a classroom. We were no longer students. We were survivors.

Since then, many of us haven’t slept well. Some of my friends get nightmares. Others flinch at every loud sound. I used to love writing stories, but now it’s hard to focus on anything. I sit in class, wondering if the sky will tear open again.

We were just kids in class.

We weren’t soldiers. We weren’t threats. We were learning how to make our hearts speak through words. And instead, we were forced to listen to war.

I write this because our voices deserve to be heard. We should not have to grow up afraid of the sky. We should not have to worry about bombs while learning how to read.

I write this for every child in the South who no longer feels safe at school. For every teacher who shields us with their own bodies. For every mother who waits at the gate, praying she will bring her child home.

We are calling on the world to stop these attacks.

Let children learn in peace. Let schools remain sacred. Let skies bring rain, not missiles.

We are not collateral damage.

We are students.

We are dreamers.

And we are speaking up.