Yusuf El-Mbayed (center, back) and his young students at the Without Borders Centre for Training and Development. Photo: Photo provided by Yusuf El-Mbayed

Nostalgia has hijacked my phony peace. It never ceases dragging me into the past, making me weary and vulnerable. It hides in everything my eyes come across, driving me to dodge gazes and fixate my vision in one direction, desperate to avoid feeling too much. I have nostalgia for things I never thought I would: my wardrobe, my collection of antiques and collectibles, my desk. The connection is bolt-tight, suffocating; it would feel like a betrayal if I ever tried to replace them.

On certain days, I wake up feeling as though a part of myself is missing—not permanently, but suspended somewhere out of grasp. The classroom, in which I once stood, the pupils, whom I once instructed, and the constellation of English classes, which once underscored my sense of purpose.

For more than two years before the genocide, I taught English to kids and teenagers in several cultural centers across Gaza. Those were the most fulfilling of days, which I’ll never forget.

I always enjoyed teaching English to the students. It was a lot of fun. The only way I managed my severe melancholy and anxiety was by keeping myself occupied throughout the day with lesson planning, games-based instructions, quizzes, and activities. For me, teaching was profoundly purposeful and invigorating, which is exactly why I miss it so much.

Even though my classroom was small and disorganized, it felt like the coziest place on earth. The modest room, with its simple plastic chairs, worn-out books and whiteboard, was illuminated by the bright eyes of eager students. Our English classes evoked a sense of adventure that seemed to free them from this outdoor prison. There was no special equipment or contemporary technology. Every time I stood in front of them, the heaviness all around us seemed to be muted, and I felt alive. Only their excitement to hear me narrating more stories could lift that weight off my heart; nothing else ever had.

I frequently remind myself that I was more than just a teacher. I served as a safe haven, a mentor, a brother, and, occasionally, even the cause of a child’s smile. Maybe, what makes English fascinating to them was the way I taught it—through jokes, silly role-plays, and stories that made them laugh. When a lesson feels like a comedy show, even the toughest grammar becomes something they look forward to. 

Teaching English was more than just a career; it served as a stabilizing force in my otherwise hectic existence. It was the one thing that gave me a sense of purpose, worth, and connection to something greater than the suffering in Gaza. I used to encourage my students to pretend that they were heading to the park, when they arrived at my lesson.  It was a strategy to positively inspire their approach to English.

I stood by the door, a silent observer, watching my students like a watchful gardener nurturing fragile seeds. Their eyes twinkled with possibility. Their hands: scribbling, underlining, and circling words with eager abandon. A TED Talk hummed in the background, its voice vibrating with passion and knowledge. They hung on every word, captivated by the vision of someone speaking from the future, while I, too, was lost in that world of marvels—until reality tugged at me, reminding me where I was.

They would glance at me now and then, shy giggles escaping their lips, as if to check if I noticed their hidden rebellion, their shared joy in the stolen moments. Some had already learned to take photos or videos with their phones, their faces caught in playful expressions of mischief, while others stayed with their pens, scribbling furiously in notebooks that never felt quite as perfect as their minds. The walls were adorned with their sketches, scraps of inspiration, and half-finished thoughts—their mess was a testament to the richness of their minds. And I embraced it all, watching them build and break and rebuild again.

Yusuf El-Mbayed reclining after teaching an electric English class.Photo provided by Yusuf El-Mbayed

In those moments, we were all unguarded. It wasn’t about right answers or perfect grammar, though those were important. It was about being raw, vulnerable, and willing to learn—together. The laughter that filled the room was not just about shared mistakes; it was a language of freedom, a celebration of human imperfection. They let me into their world, in all its mess and magic. I didn’t need to be perfect either. They gave me permission to let down my own walls, to reveal my mistakes, to laugh at myself, too. It was a quiet reciprocity, one that went unnoticed at the time, but which lingers in my soul now, in the absence of their voices.

I remember the way their energy would ebb and flow, a living thing. Some days, they were quiet, absorbed in their lessons; on others, the room buzzed with the hum of curious youth. Those were the days I felt most alive—alive with the hope of what they would become, alive with the belief that what we shared in that small classroom mattered. It felt like a partnership in the truest sense of the word. I wasn’t just their teacher; I was their witness, their companion in the journey of discovery.

The classroom was my sanctuary, where everything seemed to align in harmony, if only for a fleeting moment. I can still feel the weight of that room in my memory, its every detail etched like a second skin.

Then the genocide tore everything apart.