There are days in Gaza when simply waking up feels like an achievement.
I am a teacher. A father. And the founder of Gaza Great Minds. These titles may sound noble from the outside, but here, they carry a weight that is hard to explain unless you have lived it. Every morning begins not with routine, but with uncertainty. Will there be electricity? Will the roads be safe? Will the children make it to school? And most importantly, will I be able to give them what they deserve today?
Because teaching here is not just about lessons. It is about survival. It is about dignity. It is about holding on to hope when everything around you IS trying to take it away.
I still remember the beginning.
We started with just 50 students. No proper classrooms, limited materials, and a dream that felt much bigger than our reality. There were moments when it seemed impossible to continue. But those 50 children showed up every day with something stronger than resources, belief. They believed in us before we fully believed in ourselves.
Today, that small beginning has grown into something much larger. Over 2,000 students now depend on us. And with every new child, the responsibility grows heavier. Not just as an educator, but as someone who must provide a safe, stable, and comforting environment in a place where stability does not come easily.
Being a father adds another layer to this weight. I am responsible not only for my own children, but in many ways, for thousands more. I carry their fears, their dreams, their hunger to learn, and sometimes even their hunger for food. There are nights when I lie awake, thinking about how to secure the next school kit, the next meal, the next moment of normalcy for them.
And yet, despite everything, there are moments that remind me why we continue.
There is the student who walked miles just to attend class, refusing to give up on his education. The girl who spoke for the first time in front of her classmates after months of silence. The children who laugh, truly laugh, even when their reality gives them every reason not to. These moments are not small victories. They are everything.
Behind this journey, there is also a team that many do not see.
Outside Gaza, there are people working tirelessly—coordinating, fundraising, advocating, and carrying our message to the world. Their work is not easy. They face challenges of distance, misunderstanding, and constant pressure. Yet they continue, day and night, because they believe in what we are building together. Without them, much of what we do here would not be possible.
This path is not one I chose because it is easy. It is one I continue because it is necessary.
Every child who walks into our space is a reminder that education is not a luxury here, it is a lifeline. And every step forward, no matter how small, is a form of resistance against despair.
Life in Gaza is hard. There is no way to soften that truth.
But within that hardship, there are people who refuse to give up. Teachers who keep teaching. Children who keep learning. Teams who keep supporting. And somehow, together, we keep building something that cannot be destroyed easily: hope.
This is our story. And we are still writing it.
