Dolls for the girls, yo-yos for the boys. And, on children's day, a picture of a crudely drawn fighter jet firing a missile
Ahmed Khaled Mansour is 13, big for his age and confident enough to explain how he and other Libyan children feel about the UN-mandated air attacks that Muammar Gaddafi has lambasted as colonialist aggression.
"We heard the bombing last night and we were scared, of course," the teenager admitted as his classmates gathered round in their school at Saraj, where the southern outskirts of Tripoli peter out untidily into agricultural land. "They are killing children."
Saraj is a few miles from the Bab al-Aziziya barracks, where the Libyan leader's compound appeared to have been hit by an allied missile in the early hours, triggering a frenzy of anti-aircraft fire at the unseen enemy and uncertainty about what the target was.
Like all public institutions in Libya, the al-Mithaq school is decorated with pictures of the "Brother Leader of the Revolution", though the one in the main corridor shows him in flowing brown robes and headdress rather than the smart dove-grey, bemedalled military uniform he sports in other poses.
"Allah, Muammar, Libya," the younger kids chanted in the bare classroom next door, several saluting and standing to attention behind their simple wooden desks as a group of journalists were brought in, courtesy of Libya's external information service.
By coincidence, it was Libya's International Children's Day, celebrated by presents – Chinese-made dolls for the girls, yo-yos for the boys. But there was another message: "This is our gift," said the caption on a placard showing a crudely-drawn jet fighter, a reasonable likeness of a French Mirage, releasing a sinister-looking missile.
Abdel-Moneim, a six-year-old boy, held up a poster that read, in a clear but childish hand: "Libyan children in 2011 – facing bombing, horror and killing."
Ahmed, warming to his theme, protested that his forebears had fought to free Libya from colonialism, and, like many adults, complained about the "lies" of Arabic satellite TV channels which describe patriotic citizens supporting their leader as "human shields".
"We don't want the Zionist enemy here," said his friend Ahed, confused by the explanation that the assault had been approved by the UN security council and did not include Israel. "Libya is paradise," the boy added with a smile.
The staff were strictly on message too. "This is a war against al-Qaida, not against peaceful demonstrators," volunteered Arabic teacher Leila Muhammad, showing classrooms empty because some children were too frightened to come to school with bombs dropping.
Yet Tripoli as a whole seems remarkably normal. Schools, shops and offices are functioning and the only sign of anything unusual is an occasional queue outside a bank or bakery and an apparent shortage of cooking gas. Petrol stations have queues in the forecourts, suggesting disrupted supplies and panic buying. Mobile phone services have been disrupted and the internet is down almost everywhere.
Rumours are rife. Two days ago there was talk that Gaddafi's sixth son Khamis, commander of the elite 32 battalion, was being treated for severe burns. Reports that he died did not appear to be true, but have not been officially denied.
Armoured units under Khamis's command have taken part in heavy fighting in Misrata, a key port and rebel stronghold between Tripoli and Benghazi. They are likely to be a target for allied strikes once the Libyan air defence system has been demolished.
State run al-Jamahiriya TV appealed today for people in Misrata to "return to normal life now that the armed terrorist gangs have been cleansed" but residents said regime loyalists had fired on unarmed people and were using civilians as human shields against air strikes.
Conversations with Libyans are guarded. Mohammed, a government official who lives in Tajoura – a town near Tripoli that has seen clashes between protesters and security forces – looks anxious but insists all is well, "more or less" in his neighbourhood. On Sunday some of those killed there the previous night, probably in a strike on a radar station, were buried in a beachfront cemetery, the crowds chanting slogans for the TV cameras.
It remains impossible to distinguish between military and civilians among the 64 reported killed on Saturday or to be certain about the circumstances of their deaths. But 23 graves prepared for soldiers in Shatt al-Hinshir remained empty on Monday. Nor, surprisingly, were any new casualty figures announced after Sunday's raids. A doctor in Tripoli's Zawiya Street hospital said that all the injured he had treated were civilians.
Daytime normality is deceptive. After two nights of air attacks, people were braced for more, with attention focusing on the symbolic target of Bab al-Aziziya.
Musa Ibrahim, the Libyan government spokesman, spent another day being bombarded by questions from journalists about the precise whereabouts of Gaddafi. "In the hearts of all Libyans," he answered with a smile.