My Favorite Teacher Survived the War on Gaza But Didn’t Survive the “Ceasefire”

Part of the Series

Struggle and Solidarity: Writing Toward Palestinian Liberation

When Israel finally accepted a ceasefire in Gaza in October 2025, I thought the river of blood and loss had finally stopped, and that I would no longer have to live through the same feelings of grief again. But that hope did not last long. Since the so-called ceasefire came into effect, the Palestinian Ministry of Health has recorded the killings of more than 1,100 Palestinians in the Gaza Strip by Israeli army fire to this day.

For many outside Gaza, it seemed as if the war had ended. For those of us inside Gaza, death did not stop; it simply became less visible in the headlines, while it continued to break into homes and leave families devastated.

On the morning of June 4, 2026, around 8:00, I opened my phone to check the latest news. The first thing that appeared was a video published by Al Jazeera, showing a residential apartment completely engulfed in flames, with a headline reporting the death of members of the Lubbad family. Among the names of the victims, I read the name “Manar Lubbad.”

I froze for a moment.

I tried to convince myself that it was not my teacher. I kept repeating that for minutes, until I saw a post by teacher Ola Halabi, whom I met in 2019 when I was in 11th grade, and who had been an intern under Manar Lubbad.

I remember the first day Halabi entered our class. Lubbad placed her hand on her shoulder and said to us: “This is my student; I taught her in high school, and today she returns to me as a trainee teacher.” Then she began speaking about her morals and dedication, advising us to respect Halabi as we respected her.

That was the first time we met Halabi, but our teacher’s words made us feel as if we had known her for a long time.

In her June 4 post, Halabi wrote that the Israeli bombing targeted Lubbad’s home.

I went back to search the news, and found that the airstrike had killed Manar Lubbad, her husband Hassan, and her children Mohammed, Rafah, and Tamim. Her daughter, Hala, was the only survivor.

Manar Lubbad was not just an Arabic language teacher to me; she was one of the most influential figures in my school life.

At the end of 11th grade, the school honored only the top three students. My close friend Bara’a ranked first, while my friend Maryam and I were not among the honored students. We watched the students wearing graduation gowns and taking photos, but we did not have phones to take our own.

I approached Lubbad, despite my shyness, and asked her to allow us to use her phone to take photos while wearing Bara’a’s graduation gown.

She smiled without hesitation, handed me her phone, and said: “Take as many photos as you want, and if you need anything, I am here.”

I was the first to wear the gown. She looked at me for a long time and then said: “You know, Ohood, you are very beautiful, and the graduation gown suits you.”

I smiled, hugged her, and then we took dozens of photos and videos, before she sent them all to us when we returned home.

A year later, I returned to school carrying a tray of sweets after the announcement of the high school results. I had achieved a 95 percent average. Lubbad was the first to welcome me. “I was certain since I taught you in 11th grade that you would achieve a high average,” she said.

She believed in her students before they believed in themselves.

And my memories with her were no exception.

Doaa Salha, an Arabic language teacher and linguistic editor, also studied under Lubbad in 11th grade in 2018. She says that what distinguished Lubbad most was her commitment to Modern Standard Arabic and her insistence on addressing students in it inside the classroom, along with her respect for everyone and her constant smile.

Salha shared that Lubbad once sent her a message saying: “You, Doaa, are one of my most outstanding students since I began teaching, and you are distinguished in your morals and knowledge. I pray that God grants you success.”

Five years later, Salha returned to the same school, but this time as a teacher. In 2022, she worked in place of Lubbad during her illness.

Salha told me that Lubbad had told her she felt reassured about her students because Salha would be the one teaching them, adding that Lubbad used to hear students praise the same qualities in Salha that Salha would later praise in Lubbad: her way of explaining, her commitment to using Modern Standard Arabic, and her respect for everyone.

When Salha learned of Lubbad’s martyrdom through social media, she was heartbroken.

Despite the passage of time, whenever I remember Manar Lubbad, that video of her family’s home completely burning still comes back to my mind.

I ask myself: How can a teacher who dedicated her life to educating generations become a new name on a list of the dead?

Lubbad taught us at school how to write elegies for the dead, but when she was killed, I found myself unable to write her elegy.

She was killed with her husband and children inside their home, just as three years earlier I lost my close friend Maryam, who was killed inside a shelter center.

In Gaza, even after the “ceasefire,” losses continue, and memory remains burdened with the names of those who taught us, whom we loved, and whose lives were taken from us.