Maisoon Abu Mousa | Life Sciences and General Sciences Teacher – Palestine
Original article on Manhajiyat, dated 03/02/2025.
Gaza stands at a crossroads, watching a glimpse of survival from afar. It lingers amid the ruins, caught between awaited joy and postponed grief – both swirling in its heart like a millstone turned by a frail hand, too weak to bear its weight.
However, its children prepare to return, longing for a home and a dream that once felt distant – only to suddenly draw near, like a flock of birds departing their winter refuge, seeking warmth and safety once more.
Leaving was not an option – yet they left, despite the weight of love and the embrace of familiar streets and alleys. They bid farewell to the coast and harbor, passing through the overflowing Al-Rashid Street. They departed Al-Shuja’iyya and Al-Zaytoun, crossing the valley, their feet struck Salah Al-Din Street in a determined rhythm, echoing: “We will return one day.”
And now, like butterflies drawn to the glow of light, they have returned.
Muhammad and his brother Ahmed, Alaa and her sister Aya, Hala, Rahaf, both Mariams, Tala, Yamen, and their cousin Maha – all of them were my students during the most difficult of times, when pens trembled and papers tore, when letters scattered, and words disappeared.
Six months before this moment of refuge, we gathered in a classroom stripped of windows, shattered by the violence of bombardment. Even the floor beneath us was cracked and broken. Sixty children and I came together, defying the absence of doors, windows, and the splintered porcelain pieces scattered across the ground.
We had no blackboard on which to write our hopes and grief, so we borrowed a wooden board from an elderly woman who lived nearby. She welcomed us with open arms, saying, “Knowledge is light, my dear ones. Take the board – it is not a loss.” Even as she resisted the urge to burn it for firewood to cook a meal for the children of her missing son, she chose to give it to us instead. With this act, she etched resilience into the pact we made that day.
We found joy in that broken, uneven board and hurried to find chalk to write our names. My little ones scavenged for remnants of coal and chalk from schools that had become shelters for displaced families. With every word we wrote, we declared our relentless will to live – despite the tragedies surrounding us, despite the frozen tears in our eyes.
We gathered in makeshift classrooms, bringing together students of all ages, bound by a common vow:
“We will not let our schools die, as everything else around us has.”
Perhaps these children – after losing their school, teachers, friends, books, pencils, and every sense of normalcy – now truly understood the value of what was once taken for granted. Was it merely a childlike tendency to long for what was lost, or was it a deep yearning for education – an escape from an indescribable reality? Perhaps it was all of these reasons intertwined – a mixture too complex to comprehend, too bitter to swallow.
For months, we held onto learning – sometimes through humor, sometimes through song. Hunger often found its way into our conversations – we spoke of the price of vegetables and flour, yearning for them. Yet, we quickly set aside those cravings to embrace the dreams of knowledge. Whenever I saw fatigue in their eyes, I wandered into the hearts they had entrusted to me, searching through their wounds and soothing them with the only remedy I had – compassion. Medicine was denied to us by the inhumanity of war.
Here, a teacher is like a doctor – both seek out pain and lay their hands upon it. One heals a nation, while the other restores hope, one soul at a time.
As we immersed ourselves in science, reading, and experiments, we also sang, painted, played, and told stories. We laughed – louder than the shelling, the drones, and the terror of the planes. During our “open days,” we shared simple meals, carefully selecting a “shining student” to honor with a small gift. We were like a red flower blooming amid gray rubble, surrounded by the ruins of souls and homes, wrapped in the tears of a grieving city. Then…
The long-awaited day arrived – the ceasefire was declared, and suddenly, everyone began planning their return home. Alongside it came a surge of mixed emotions – my displaced students, whom I had come to love, were leaving. We had grown attached – to this place, to each other.
Within the sacred space of learning, we made a pact – vowing our commitment to education – and hung that promise on our classroom wall.
On Monday, January 27, 2025, I said my goodbyes. Just yesterday, I had been their pillar of support, and they had been my strength. Now, they packed their belongings, their voices carrying heartfelt words:
“I will never forget you, my teacher.”
“You were the moon that lit my long, dark nights.”
“I promise to visit you in Deir al-Balah as soon as I can.”
There was barely time for more than a fleeting goodbye – a kiss on the forehead, a message of love in a child’s colorful handwriting.
The lessons did not end in our classroom – only the displacement did. The immediate terror that had gripped the children subsided, and the suffocating grip of hunger loosened – just a little.
Yet contradictions still stir our weary hearts. It is no surprise, for we are a people who weep when we perish, and weep again when we survive…
For in the love of Gaza, all are lost,
Between its tender beauty and raging fire.
Our hearts linger in its laughter,
Wandering through its valleys and fields.
Love and war… water and flame,
In its depths, opposites shake hands.
This blog post was published on the Manhajiyat and was translated into English as part of a joint project with the Centre for Lebanese Studies and (PROCOL). All rights reserved. Republishing or quoting the article is prohibited without citing the source or obtaining written permission.