By Nada Hamdona

This isn’t only a story about a professor I lost. It’s about someone who taught me how to live, how to remain human in the face of war.

“Since the beginning of Israel’s genocidal war in October 2023, everyday life in Gaza has become nearly impossible. Constant bombardment, the collapse of infrastructure, and the lack of even the most basic necessities have shattered any sense of normalcy.

Yet in the midst of this devastation, many continue to hold onto hope, resisting in the quietest yet most powerful way—through education. 

This first-hand account from the heart of Gaza’s war reveals how education becomes a form of resistance, how a teacher’s guidance can anchor students in chaos, and how the pursuit of knowledge offers purpose even in the shadow of death.

My name is Nada, and I am a 24-year-old native of the Gaza Strip. I am currently pursuing a master’s degree in international relations and diplomacy at Al-Aqsa University’s Faculty of Arts. 

In Gaza, in the midst of war, studying became more than a pursuit of knowledge—it became a way to hold on to purpose and resist the collapse of everything around us.

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Among all my courses, one stood out: International and Regional Organizations. What made it exceptional wasn’t just the curriculum—it was the professor, Dr. Faiq Al-Naaouq. He showed me that education can offer stability and meaning, even when surrounded by death.

Even as images of destruction filled our television screens, Dr. Faiq gave us hope while explaining theories of international affairs. He spoke about the United Nations even as its offices were being bombed around us. He discussed human rights at a time when we were struggling just to prove we were human beings worthy of life. 

Dr. Faiq was unlike anyone else—deeply human, eloquent in his simplicity, more than just a teacher. He was an inspiration, a guide, and a father figure. He didn’t just lecture us—he reminded us again and again: “Learn, because knowledge is stronger than war.”

We eagerly awaited his lectures. Despite the roar of drones and tanks, despite the power cuts and bombings, we would gather online—listening, engaging, asking questions, sometimes even laughing. We had to laugh, if only to prove we were still alive.

Then, on an otherwise ordinary day in the midst of unending catastrophe, we received news that shattered us. On April 24, 2025, Dr. Faiq Al-Naaouq and his family were killed in a midnight airstrike on the Jabaliya refugee camp—a place where safety had long ceased to exist.

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The news appeared quietly on our phones, and time seemed to stop. A heavy silence settled over our thoughts. It didn’t feel real. We didn’t want to believe it.

Inside me, the place that had once been a space for learning became a graveyard of memories. I stared at my phone, rereading his messages in our class group chat, hearing his voice in my mind, remembering the reassurance his words once brought. And then I wept—not just for a teacher, but for a source of hope that had been taken from us.

This isn’t only a story about a professor I lost. It’s about someone who taught me how to live, how to remain human in the face of war. He showed me that a truthful message can survive even when voices are silenced—and that knowledge can outlast violence.

Dr. Faiq didn’t just teach diplomacy from a textbook. He taught us how to find peace within ourselves while everything outside burned. He taught us to build resilience and to stay connected to a sense of purpose.

I faced my own battles. I kept asking, “Why continue?” “Why study when there’s no guarantee of tomorrow?” That harsh voice would say, You won’t make it to the end—why even begin?

But I resisted. I answered with what I had learned: Maybe I won’t live—but at least I’ll die trying. I want to build something meaningful, not wait for the end to come.

Dr. Faiq believed in that, too. I found strength in his words, in his optimism, in the way he carried himself. He once told us, “Knowledge doesn’t recognize emergencies, but we live in a state of constant emergency.” Knowledge, like light, can continue to guide others—even after the source is gone.

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Dr. Faiq’s presence online became a kind of shelter during the siege. We joined his lectures from tents or damaged rooms. He always greeted us with warmth, asked how we were doing, and listened—not just as a teacher, but as someone who truly cared.

I remember once joining a class in tears. The weight of everything was too much. He noticed, and instead of calling attention to it publicly, he messaged me privately: “Nada, are you okay? Keep your hope alive. Even if it seems far away, your future is still ahead of you.”

Those were the last words I ever received from him.

Now, as I work on my thesis—The Role of International Organizations in Crisis Management—I feel Dr. Faiq’s presence in every sentence. Every idea I explore is part of the legacy he left behind.

Death may take a person’s body, but it cannot erase their impact. Some people remain with us, even in their absence. Dr. Faiq Al-Naaouq is one of them. This story is both a tribute and a form of resistance—resistance through language, knowledge, and memory.

To anyone reading this: words matter. War doesn’t destroy everything. The hope, knowledge, and humanity that people like Dr. Faiq gave us—those things remain. No matter how loud the war, no matter how relentless the bombs—they live on, inside us.

(The Palestine Chronicle)