Love and instruction come together in a tent classroom. Screenshot provided by Lamia Hatem (video taken by a student)

Lamia Hatem is a teacher from Gaza whose kindness and courage truly inspired me.

When the war began, Lamia volunteered to teach displaced children in a small tent. She dreamed of building a school for orphans and the children of martyrs and she made that dream come true. She founded Alsumoud School, the first in Gaza for the children of martyrs. Lamia has become like a mother to her students, giving them love, care, and a safe place to learn and heal. The school is now officially recognized by the Ministry of Education and teaches more than 150 orphaned children.

I first heard about Lamia Hatem from an Instagram reel. What caught my attention was the way she looked at her students—those orphans—with a tenderness that felt almost impossible in the middle of a war. Her gentle voice, her arms around the little ones seeking warmth, her patience with their fear… it all stopped me. I was deeply moved by what she was doing.

She is 22 years old, born and raised in Gaza, and when she speaks about her students, she doesn’t call them “my students.” She calls them, “my children.”

Since she was a little girl, Lamia was in love with learning. Her mother was her first supporter, pushing her to read, to study, to dream bigger than the walls of their home. As a child she studied English, learned algorithms, memorized the Qur’an by the sixth grade, and excelled in school.

Later, she graduated in English media from Al-Azhar University, completed a year in education, and is now studying for a master’s in management. “I’m very ambitious when it comes to learning,” she said. You can hear it in her voice: education, for her, is not a career. It is a love story.

Before the war, Lamia didn’t plan to become a teacher. Her work was in copywriting. She worked in a marketing company called StepUp in Gaza and became head of her department. “I was creative in that field,” she says. “I thought that was my path.”

Then the war came. The company was destroyed. Her work stopped in a moment. Like so many in Gaza, she and her family became displaced and ended up in an overcrowded camp in Deir Al-Balah in the south.

One day in the camp, an announcement went around: They needed volunteers to teach the displaced children. “I raised my hand right away,” she told me. “I always love to help, especially through learning.” She didn’t feel fully prepared to become a teacher, but something in her heart answered before her mind could object.

The first classroom was just a strip of cloth on the sand. The children sat in a circle, sometimes with a simple board to write on, sometimes with nothing but notebooks and shared pencils.

Lamia is still working in the south, currently displaced with her family in the Nuseirat camp. She goes to her job every day to teach the children, and she continues to welcome new orphaned kids as well, all on a completely voluntary basis.

She is engaged but not yet married, and doesn’t have any children yet. But she has truly been like a mother to all those orphans she cares for.

With time, a volunteer organization called Seeds of Humanity provided a tent with some chairs, a whiteboard, and a few supplies. It was still a fragile space—rain leaked through in winter, and in summer the heat turned the tent into an oven—but it was better than bare ground.

Lamia working with children inside a tent in the displacement camp. Photo provided by Lamia Hatem (taken by a student)

Teaching there was not easy. Airstrikes landed close enough to shake the walls. Sometimes a parent of one of her students was killed. Sometimes a child from her class was injured or didn’t come back. “Those were very hard moments,” she said. “But what kept me going was my love for teaching, and my belief that these children must have their right to education, even in war.”

In displacement camps, all mothers were busy just trying to keep their families alive: cooking over fires, bringing water, cleaning, standing in long lines for aid. The children often carried a silent, heavy loneliness. “They had an emotional emptiness,” Lamia said. “My role was not only as a teacher. I wanted to be like a mother, a sister. I wanted them to feel there is safety, love, tenderness.”

Day after day, she noticed how many of her students were orphans or children of martyrs. Some had no one to support their education. Others had disabilities or learning difficulties—poor hearing, weak eyesight, very low academic levels. These were the children other schools refused. “I wanted to do something just for them,” she explained. “A place that would welcome the ones no one else accepts.” She works to raise their academic level and their spirits, giving them hope and a sense that their lives still have direction.

With that dream, the Alsumoud School for Martyrs’ Children and Orphans was born. At first, the dream felt impossible. Lamia tried to collect donations. The amounts were small—100 dollars, 200 or 300 shekels—barely enough for basics. Then one man offered to cover the rent for a proper building: real walls, a roof, a bigger space, chairs and a whiteboard. It was not luxurious, but after months in a tent that flooded in the rain and burned in the sun, it felt like a miracle.,

Lamia spent days walking in the burning heat to find the right location where she knew the neighbors and felt a little safer. The building ended up near an UNRWA clinic in Al-Nuseirat. “There is no truly safe place in Gaza,” she said, “but I chose the safest I could.” Her brother and brother-in-law helped her carry chairs, arrange the classroom, and prepare it for the children.

Lamia’s classroom is crowded but has a positive atmosphere. Photo: Lamia Hatem

She chose the name Alsumoud carefully. “We are steadfast,” she told me. “I am steadfast and my students are steadfast, despite everything they live through—despite losing parents, being injured, their psychological tiredness. They still want to learn. They want to become doctors, engineers, and professors.”

One story stays with her more than any other: a ten-year-old boy named Raji Lafi. He was an excellent student, quiet and hardworking. His passion was fishing. On days when he went to the sea, he would bring back small fishes for his classmates—two fish, sometimes more, sharing his small joy with everyone.

“One day in class,” Lamia recalled, “he told me, ‘Miss, next lesson I will bring you three fish.’” That next lesson never came. Raji was killed when his family’s tent was bombed.

Her students kept asking, “Miss, where is Raji? When will he come back?” Lamia did not know what to answer. “I told them, ‘Raji is in heaven now. He can hear us. He wants us to continue learning.’”

Now, when she looks at the sea, she sees it the way Raji did—not as a danger, but as a place to breathe and release fear.

The children of Alsumoud stick to her with a love that is almost painful. Many have lost a father, a mother, sometimes both. They search for warmth wherever they can find it. They hug her, sit close, and hold her hand. She often gets sick from the constant contact, catching their fevers and colds, but she just laughs. “It’s okay,” she said. “I have put my life, my effort, and my energy in their hands.”

During the famine, her students would come to class dizzy, unable to stand or concentrate. “They were truly hungry,” she said. “I couldn’t feed them, so I tried to give them words.” She would sit them down and recite with them: “Who has fed them against hunger and secured them against fear.” — Surah Quraysh. She read verses from the Qur’an and simple prayers to give them patience. Later, when the situation improved a little, they came back and told her, “Miss, the prayers we used to say, they happened.”

Alsumoud School building in Al-Nuseirat, South Gaza. Photo provided by Lamia Hatem (taken by a student)

One day, during heavy bombing, the explosions came so close that the whole building shook. The children panicked and tried to run outside. Lamia knew that leaving the building could be even more dangerous. “I gathered them all under my arms, like a bird covering its chicks,” she said. “I told them, ‘No one moves.’ We waited until it calmed down. Then I sent them home, one by one, safely.”

Lamia created a simple but organized system for her school. She teaches Arabic, Mathematics, and English to students from grade 3 to grade 7, and each subject has a teacher. Every group comes three days a week for a three-hour session before giving space for the next class. “This is how we manage,” she explained.

On October 20, 2025, Alsumoud School was officially recognized by the Ministry of Education. Inspectors visited, saw the 150 children, and evaluated the teachers and the learning environment. Then they granted the school formal status. “I felt a huge pride,” Lamia said. “I felt that Allah saw my intention and allowed me to witness its results. But I also feel this is only the beginning.”

The announcement from the Gaza Ministry of Education system that Alsumoud School is officially registered. Screenshot captured by Lamia Hatem

The challenges are still huge. The needs are still basic and urgent. There is no bathroom in the school. There is no reliable electricity, no screen to show educational videos, and  not enough teachers and rooms for the growing number of students. Lamia has many ideas—using technology and even artificial intelligence to create interactive lessons—but she has almost no resources to implement them. “I have the energy and the knowledge,” she said. “What I don’t have are the tools.”

Her dream is not just a school. “I want to build a village for orphans,” she told me. “A big school with trees, a yard to play in, laboratories, devices, everything. A place where they can feel they belong, where they can heal and grow.”

When I asked her if she ever thought of stopping, she smiled in a tired way and shook her head. “I get exhausted. I break down sometimes. But when I see their smiles in class, my heart becomes calm and everything becomes easier again.”

Every day, Lamia stands in front of her orphans and gives them the one thing this war tried to steal from them: a sense of tomorrow. In her classroom, she tells them with her voice and with her presence, You are not alone. You are my children. And you still have a future.

The children showing pride. Photo provided by Lamia Hatem (taken by a student)