Taken during a goodbye party organized by my ninth grade students when I moved to teach at another school. What is written on the board is, “The most beautiful days we spent together are unforgettable, Miss Mariam.” Photo: Mariam Ahmed Roubi

The moment I saw my name on the government employment list in September 2023, a wave of relief, pride, and excitement rushed through me. Earlier that day, I had returned home from my part-time job, teaching English at a local educational center. My mother told me that my name had appeared on the 2023 government employment list and that I needed to go to the East Gaza Directorate of Education to complete the procedures and sign my contract. I still remember the warmth of that moment: my family smiling, hugging, and celebrating with me as I finally took my first real steps toward the future I had always dreamed of.

In Gaza, becoming an official teacher is not easy. Before October 2023, there were two main paths to teaching in public education: through government or UNRWA schools. Both systems were highly competitive and required candidates to pass difficult exams and interviews. Some people applied year after year, sometimes more than 10 times, before finally succeeding.

I had started preparing for that moment long before graduation. During university, I maintained a high GPA (Grade Point Average) and spent nearly two years volunteering and training in schools to ready myself for teaching and for the official hiring process. Fortunately, I passed both the exam and interview on my first attempt.

That night, I could hardly sleep. My mind was overflowing with questions, dreams, and anticipation. I wondered what my students would be like, which grade I would teach, and what strategies and methods I would use in the classroom. I imagined my relationships with my colleagues and head teacher, and I thought about the kind of teacher I hoped to become. And I was already thinking about how I would balance my career with more study, as I had always dreamed of becoming a university instructor.

I first began teaching ninth-grade students in Gaza public schools in September 2023. Then, a month later, I became a full-time teacher for first and second graders. The first time I stood in front of my students, I realized how deeply teaching is tied to responsibility. Every word and piece of information matter. I became aware of how my behavior could influence my students — that I could not raise my voice or react emotionally and that I needed to be patient, controlled, and precise.

But that feeling did not last long. That same month, October 2023, schools closed because of the genocide. Since then, I have been waiting to feel that sense of purpose again.

I took this picture while teaching first- and second-grade students in Gaza at the beginning of October 2023. Photo: Mariam Ahmed Roubi

Life under genocide

These memories recently came back to me while I was helping my mother prepare lunch over an open fire, as gas is often unavailable in Gaza. That day, we were cooking spaghetti with white sauce, one of our favorite meals. The smell of the burning wood mixed with the creamy sauce as the smoke rose in the air. Food cooked over fire tastes different, but we have learned to adapt. 

Since October 2023, my mother, who is also a teacher, and I have been unable to continue our work. Instead, we find ourselves trapped in a harsh daily cycle centered around survival and housework. With no reliable access to water, electricity, or fuel, even the simplest tasks have become exhausting. Cooking, for example, now requires carrying every item upstairs to the roof — the pots, plates, cutlery, and all the ingredients — because it is unsafe to light a fire inside the house and the smoke would blacken the walls. While cooking, our attention is no longer focused only on the meal itself, but also on keeping the fire burning. We constantly add pieces of wood or cardboard, and sometimes the fire suddenly dies, forcing us to start all over again.

Helping my mother to cook spaghetti with white sauce. Photo: Mariam Ahmed Roubi

While we were cooking that day, my mother mentioned seeing a Facebook post written by a school supervisor she knows. He was expressing frustration about the current state of education in Gaza, in which many officially appointed teachers remain unable to return to classrooms, while temporary educational spaces increasingly rely on graduates who have not yet completed the official hiring requirements.

The message felt personal. My mother and I have both passed the official exams and interviews, yet we remain outside the classroom. 

What experience brings to teaching

I have always seen my mother as a role model in education. She is a dedicated and hardworking mathematics teacher who has taught Tawjihi, the final year of secondary school in Palestine, for more than 25 years. Every fall, she returns to her classroom with passion, energy, and commitment. She has her way of explaining complex concepts, but what always stood out to me was how deeply she cared about her students beyond academics, the advice she gave them, and the values she tried to instill in them.

When I was a Tawjihi student at the school where she taught, I often noticed her standing beside students during breaks, listening carefully as they shared with her the pressures of school or the personal problems they were facing. She would comfort them, help them think through solutions, and advise them on how to handle difficult situations. To many of them, she was more than a teacher; she was like a mother. She treated all her students equally, with kindness, patience, and respect.

Though education resumed in many areas of Gaza around August 2024, it did not return as before. Classes are now held in tents or simple setups supported by international organizations. At first, UNICEF welcomed a limited number of officially employed teachers to work in these spaces. Later, however, recruitment increasingly focused on graduates, some who had graduated during the war and others before it, rather than teachers who had completed the official employment process.

This is not meant to diminish the efforts of those graduates. They also studied hard and worked to reach this stage. The issue is that becoming an officially appointed teacher in Gaza traditionally requires an additional step: passing the competitive exams and interviews required for public employment. Many teachers who had completed those requirements and secured official positions are now left waiting at home, while others who have not yet passed those stages are being prioritized for temporary teaching opportunities.

The intention behind these decisions may have been to provide more people with opportunities for income during the war. But it has created another form of hardship. Official teachers still technically receive government salaries because they remain registered employees, yet many wait between50 and 80 days to receive around $300 — far from sufficient, given the extreme cost of living and the instability in Gaza. At the same time, many are restricted from seeking work with other organizations.

As a result, qualified teachers are being pushed further away from the profession they spent years preparing for. And as teaching is not simply a source of income, but part of their identity and purpose, losing access to the classroom feels like losing a part of themselves.

An appeal to international organizations to recognize our value

These teachers, including my mother and myself, are not asking for privilege over others. We ask that international organizations support officially employed teachers so we, too, can continue working in education, similar to the support provided to workers in other sectors, especially healthcare workers, who continue serving under extremely dangerous conditions.

In Gaza, the challenge is therefore not only about rebuilding schools. It is also about recognizing the value of those teachers who are trained, experienced, officially qualified, and still waiting for their place in the classroom.