๐งต ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐๐ถ๐ธ๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐ป ๐ข๐น๐ถ๐๐ฒ ๐ง๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฒ: ๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ฎ ๐ง๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ๐ฟโ๐ ๐จ๐ป๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ธ๐ฎ๐ฏ๐น๐ฒ ๐๐ผ๐ฝ๐ฒ ๐ถ๐ป ๐๐ฎ๐๐ฎ
In a land where life constantly tests your spirit, where mornings begin with smoke instead of sunlight, and where survival has become a daily mission, one woman stands tall, unwavering, rooted like an ancient olive tree.
My name is Doaa Ibrahim Al-Minawi, and I am a mathematics teacher at Gaza Great Minds School. I am also a mother, a daughter of a martyr, a sister to a martyr, and a woman who refuses to let despair define her story.
In a land where life constantly tests your spirit, where mornings begin with smoke instead of sunlight, and where survival has become a daily mission, one woman stands tall, unwavering, rooted like an ancient olive tree.
My name is Doaa Ibrahim Al-Minawi, and I am a mathematics teacher at Gaza Great Minds School. I am also a mother, a daughter of a martyr, a sister to a martyr, and a woman who refuses to let despair define her story.
Growing up, I watched my father, Professor Ibrahim Al-Minawiteach with passion and purpose. He wasnโt just a teacher; he was a beacon of wisdom and compassion. Even after he was killed, he remained my guide. In every step I take, I still hear his voice. I chose to study at the Islamic University of Gaza in his honor, carrying forward the light he sparked in our home.
But life before this war is nothing like life after.
But life before this war is nothing like life after.
Now, each day begins before dawn. I wake to a home without electricity or running water, a kitchen without gas. I knead dough, wash clothes by hand, cook over open flames and all while preparing to teach. My mornings begin with smoke in my lungs just to make a cup of milk for my children. I ration the little bread we have, slicing it carefully so they have something anything to take with them.
And then, I teach. Not just lessons in numbers and logic, but lessons in resilience, hope, and dignity.
As both a mother and a teacher, I divide my heart. My students are my children, and my children are my students. I plan their lessons, their dreams, their futures, even when mine feels uncertain.
I carry silent fears: the fear of loss, the fear of another loved one taken too soon. Iโve already buried my father. Iโve already buried my sister. I donโt know if I can survive another grave.
And then, I teach. Not just lessons in numbers and logic, but lessons in resilience, hope, and dignity.
As both a mother and a teacher, I divide my heart. My students are my children, and my children are my students. I plan their lessons, their dreams, their futures, even when mine feels uncertain.
I carry silent fears: the fear of loss, the fear of another loved one taken too soon. Iโve already buried my father. Iโve already buried my sister. I donโt know if I can survive another grave.
One day, I learned that the mother of one of my most brilliant students had died not from bombs, but from cancer. She couldnโt access treatment because of the war. That day, I wept not only for a mother lost, but for a child robbed of comfort and for a society suffocating under siege.
And yet we rise.
Because Gaza does not bow to humiliation. Because our dignity is ancient, deep-rooted like our olive trees. Because when everything collapses around us, we build with chalk and blackboards, with books and lessons, with courage and dreams.
As a mother, I dream of seeing my children grow up to be strong, kind, and successful, each in their own way. As a teacher, I dream of helping my students reach their goals, of continuing my professional journey and earning higher degrees.
And as Doaa simply Doaa, I dream of a small home with a garden, where I can raise chickens, doves, a cow, and maybe even a sheep. A quiet life, filled with peace and purpose.
In Gaza, we don't wait for life to be kind, we insist on living with purpose, even in its absence.
And yet we rise.
Because Gaza does not bow to humiliation. Because our dignity is ancient, deep-rooted like our olive trees. Because when everything collapses around us, we build with chalk and blackboards, with books and lessons, with courage and dreams.
As a mother, I dream of seeing my children grow up to be strong, kind, and successful, each in their own way. As a teacher, I dream of helping my students reach their goals, of continuing my professional journey and earning higher degrees.
And as Doaa simply Doaa, I dream of a small home with a garden, where I can raise chickens, doves, a cow, and maybe even a sheep. A quiet life, filled with peace and purpose.
In Gaza, we don't wait for life to be kind, we insist on living with purpose, even in its absence.
๐๐๐๐จ ๐๐ค๐ฃ๐๐ก๐ช๐๐๐จ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ง๐๐๐.
๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช! โค๏ธ๐ค ๐ค ๐
๐ผ๐ช๐ฉ๐๐ค๐ง: Doaa Ibrahim Al-Minawi
Blog link: gazagreatminds.org/rooted-like-anโฆ
Donate: donate.stripe.com/3cs03SdcraNo38โฆ
Website: gazagreatminds.org
#WeWillReadAgain
๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช! โค๏ธ๐ค ๐ค ๐
๐ผ๐ช๐ฉ๐๐ค๐ง: Doaa Ibrahim Al-Minawi
Blog link: gazagreatminds.org/rooted-like-anโฆ
Donate: donate.stripe.com/3cs03SdcraNo38โฆ
Website: gazagreatminds.org
#WeWillReadAgain
โข โข โข
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