It’s 2 a.m., and I can hear the distant thud of explosions in the night. The walls of my house tremble slightly, and I close my eyes, praying that my family is safe. I am used to these sounds, having lived through multiple conflicts here in my city, Khan Younis, but every time it happens, it feels like the first time: raw and terrifying. I can only imagine how my students are feeling.

I’m a high school teacher. I’ve been teaching English for nearly three years, and this war, this relentless violence, is unlike anything I’ve experienced. We had just wrapped up the last term, and the students were looking forward to their summer break. Now, all that seems so far away. The schools have been closed, of course, but that hasn’t stopped me from trying to reach out to my students.

When the fighting started again, I knew I had to do something. As the bombs started falling, our school’s administration told us to stay at home for safety. At first, I thought, “Okay, we’ll wait this out, like we always do.” But then I remembered my students — my brave, resilient students. How could I just sit here in my quiet, damaged house while they suffered? Some of them live in the heart of the conflict zones. I had to do something.

I vividly remember the last lesson, in which I explained to my students the significance of olive trees in Palestine. I described how they symbolize resilience and cultural identity, as the trees have been cultivated for thousands of years, passed down through generations. It was an emotional moment, as I shared stories of farmers who, despite facing hardship and displacement, continue to care for their olive groves. The olive tree, to them, is more than just a crop; it’s a symbol of steadfastness, connection to the land, and hope for the future.

The first thing I did was reach out by creating a WhatsApp group. I know the internet isn’t always reliable during these times, and electricity cuts are common, but I thought if I could just send a message, it might offer them some comfort. I wrote: “Stay safe, everyone. I’m thinking of you all. If you need anything, I am here.” It wasn’t much, but I hoped it would be enough.

By morning, I received a response from Amal, one of my 17-year-old students. Her message chilled me. “Teacher Rawand, our house is shaking. I don’t know if we will be okay.” She sent a voice note after that, her voice barely audible over the sounds of explosions in the background. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

I couldn’t sleep after that. I stayed up thinking about Amal, about all of my students, and how they were coping with the chaos. They’ve faced this kind of violence before, but it doesn’t get easier. How do you explain to a 17-year-old that education, that knowledge, is important when the very ground beneath their feet is being destroyed?

The next few days were a blur. I was constantly in contact with my students, trying to keep them grounded in something other than the war. Whenever I could, I sent them lessons through voice notes and recorded lessons, and I shared educational resources. Even when the power went out or the internet failed, I used my phone’s battery to stay connected. I couldn’t let them feel abandoned.

I remember one afternoon, as the sky darkened with the thick smoke from nearby bombings, Layla, a bright student in my 11th-grade class, finally replied after several days of silence. Her message read: “I miss school, teacher. But I think I won’t make it out of this. I’m scared I won’t see you again.”

A knot formed in my throat, Layla had always been one of my most optimistic students, always asking questions, always eager to learn. To hear her speak like this shattered me. But I had to be strong for her, for all of them.

I did what I could. I told her that she was strong, that she would get through this, and that we would see each other again one day. I told her that education was more than just books and exams — it was the hope we held onto, the resilience we carried, the strength to keep moving forward, even when everything seemed to be falling apart.

Later, I found out that Layla’s neighborhood was hit by an airstrike and her family had to flee. I heard from her a week later. “We are safe, teacher. But I don’t know for how long. The house is gone.”

I couldn’t help but cry when I read her message. The destruction was unimaginable, and yet, her words held a sense of strength. “I want to keep learning, teacher,” she said. “I want to make a difference.”

I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. In the midst of all this destruction, my students still want to learn. They still believe in the power of education. Despite everything, they have hope.

I’ve spent countless nights teaching by candlelight, trying to record lessons with my phone’s dim screen while listening to the sounds of war outside. Some days I wonder how much longer I can keep doing this. How much longer can any of us keep going? But then I get a message from a student telling me they’re working on an assignment, or that they’re learning something new, and I feel that spark of hope again.

This is what keeps me going. These students, their courage, their desire to learn. They remind me of why I became a teacher in the first place — to give them the tools they need to build a better future, even if the world around us seems to be falling apart.

The war rages on, but I will keep teaching. I will keep showing up, even if it’s just with a voice note, even if it’s just with a message of encouragement. Education, after all, is not just about the lessons we teach. It’s about the strength we give to each other in the face of impossible odds. And as long as there is hope, as long as there are students like Amal, Layla, and so many others, I will keep going. We all will.

In Gaza’s schools, where silence falls,
A teacher waits, her heart recalls
The laughter, chatter, voices clear,
Of students she can’t hold near.
Through shattered skies, she prays each day
For peace to light their troubled way.
She misses them, her guiding hand,
A dream for all to understand.
Though walls divide and shadows loom,
Her love for them will always bloom,
In every lesson, every song,
Their spirits with her, bold and strong.