Even in Exile, We Carry Palestine
by Noor Mhanna
Noor Mhanna is an educator and refugee from Gaza with a degree in English Language and Teaching Methods from Al-Azhar University. She previously trained to teach in UNRWA schools and remains deeply connected to UNRWA USA’s mission. After surviving war, displacement, and personal loss, she now teaches Arabic and English through NaTakallam, sharing her story and culture with students worldwide. Based in Egypt now with her young son, she hopes to one day open a cultural learning center for displaced families.
Growing up in Gaza, my family and I lived through numerous invasions and conflicts. The sound of airstrikes, the fear of the unknown, and the constant struggle for safety shaped our daily lives. Despite these challenges, we held on to our dreams and our culture, finding strength in our heritage and community.
I studied English at Al-Azhar University in Gaza, graduating with a Bachelor’s in English Language and Teaching Methods. My passion for education led me to the American International School, where I found fulfillment in teaching and contributing to the growth of young minds.
But our peaceful life was abruptly shattered. The genocide—identified as such by experts— began in October 2023. My husband, Khaled, who had been working as a taxi driver due to Gaza’s collapsing economy, stayed behind to help others evacuate when we were forced to leave our home. He was the light of our lives—selfless, kind, and brave. We had dreams of a future together, but those dreams were torn apart by the violence that engulfed Gaza.
We lost everything. Our home was bombed multiple times, leaving us with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We sought refuge in my sister’s tiny apartment, where we lived with 13 family members, struggling for basic necessities like food and water. Despite the dire circumstances, we found ourselves surrounded by others who had suffered the same fate—neighbors, relatives, and strangers alike, all displaced and in search of safety.
Throughout this unimaginable ordeal, UNRWA stood as a beacon of support when the world turned its back on us.
UNRWA has always been more than just an aid organization for Palestine refugees—it’s part of our lives. Before the war, I did my teaching practice in an UNRWA school, and my father-in-law, Nayef Alhattab, was a school principal there. I had recently passed the interviews to become an English teacher with UNRWA and was eagerly waiting to start my dream job—teaching in the very institution that had educated generations of Palestinians. Then the war came, and with it, the dreams of thousands of teachers, students, and families were placed on indefinite hold.
Still, during the chaos, UNRWA never disappeared. In the midst of food shortages and health crises, they provided critical assistance. My father, who has diabetes, received medical support and free medication through their clinics when hospitals were no longer accessible. UNRWA’s monthly food parcels had always helped us stretch our limited resources. During the siege, their role became even more essential, especially as many organizations ceased operations or fled the crisis. UNRWA stayed.
When I finally made it out of Gaza with my son and three brothers, it felt surreal. The evacuation process was emotionally brutal—I had to leave my parents behind in Deir Al Balah (the middle area). We were among the last families to escape before the borders were sealed. The guilt of leaving my parents, knowing their lives were still in constant danger, was suffocating. But I had to make the impossible choice between staying and risking all our lives or leaving with the hope of rebuilding something for my son.
We arrived in Egypt with nothing—no home, no money, no plan. I was a widow, a mother and a refugee. I was broken. For weeks, I felt like I was floating in a fog of loss. My son would wake up crying for his father. Every sound reminded him of warplanes. I had to hold back my own tears to comfort him, even when I was falling apart inside.
That’s when NaTakallam entered my life. A friend told me about it. It’s a platform that connects displaced people and refugees with online work opportunities, especially in language instruction and translation. I applied, not fully expecting anything. But they responded with kindness, understanding and encouragement. They listened to my story. They saw my potential, not just my pain.
Through NaTakallam, I began teaching Arabic and English again—reclaiming a part of myself that had been buried under rubble and trauma. My students came from all over the world. Many of them wanted to learn not only the language but also the human side of what was happening in Gaza. In every lesson, I shared more than just grammar rules or vocabulary. I shared my Palestinian culture, my accent, my story.
NaTakallam gave me a renewed sense of dignity. I was no longer just a victim or a statistic. I was a teacher again. A provider. A storyteller. Most of all, I was a mother working to build a better life for her child.
My son, Nayef, is only five years old. He lost his father. He lost his toys, his home, his normal life. But through it all, I try to give him joy, stability, and purpose. In Alexandria, we live modestly. I rent a small, furnished apartment and work from home. I teach online for three to four hours a day and spend the rest of the time with him. We go to the sea often. I tell him that this is the same sea that kisses the shores of Gaza. He listens carefully, his little hand in mine, and asks, “Mama, when can we go back home?”
I don’t have an answer.
But I do have hope.
Despite everything, I carry a deep desire to give back—not just to my son, but to other refugees, to my students, to my community. I’m developing my own Arabic and English courses now, hoping to reach more learners and expand my income. My dream is to one day open a small cultural learning center for displaced families and children. A place of language, art, healing, and memory.
I often say that being a refugee is not just about being homeless. It’s about carrying loss with you every day, while still trying to smile for your child. It’s about whispering “We’ll be okay” even when you don’t know if you will be. It’s about building from scratch—with no map, no instructions, just faith and love.
Today, I stand because of organizations like UNRWA and NaTakallam. They didn’t just give me resources—they gave me space to breathe, to speak, to work, and to be seen.
To those in the international community: please don’t look away. When you support UNRWA, you’re not supporting a political agenda—you’re supporting teachers, children, parents, human beings who just want to live. When you support NaTakallam, you’re empowering displaced people to reclaim their identities and livelihoods.
We Palestinians are not broken. We are exhausted, yes. Grieving, yes. But we are also proud, resilient, and determined.
My grandmother fled her village in 1948 with only the key to her home and the hope of returning. I carry that same key in my heart. I teach my son his history, his language, and his right to dream. One day, we will go home—not just to a house, but to a free Palestine.
Until then, I will keep teaching. I will keep sharing. And I will keep believing.
Because even in exile, we carry our homeland within us.
You can take action to support education for Palestine refugees. Donate to our Fund the Future campaign to help 44 talented Palestine refugee students pursue their dreams of higher education. Or sign up for Arabic classes with Noor and other refugee teachers through our partner, NaTakallam.