On a quiet morning, I was sitting on a wooden bench in front of my old school, watching students coming in and out carrying roses and colorful gift boxes, and laughter rising in an atmosphere where the scent of chalk mixed with the scent of seasonal gratitude. The occasion of Teacher’s Day was returning as it usually does every year, but something inside me kept silently wondering: Is this day a real celebration of the teacher, or is it a social ritual that we practice? Is there temporary friendliness and then we move on?
I contemplated the scene for a long time, recalling years of silent giving, when I would enter the hall before everyone else, and leave it last, between effort and fatigue. I was planting a dream in the eyes of the students, and in their hearts the ability to rise from failure, without waiting for a word of thanks or a gift. I believed that teaching was not a profession, but a message that transcended the walls, but as the years passed, I began to see how this day turned from a moment of appreciation. Sincere to a formal occasion in which love is measured by the number of roses, not by the depth of memory.
UNESCO reports say that 20% of teachers around the world feel unappreciated, while the percentage of professional satisfaction in the Arab world does not exceed 40%. These numbers are not dry numbers, but rather an echo of the accumulated feeling of every teacher, when he values form and forgets content. The teacher, more than any other profession, lives on moral value, on a look of respect, on the word “You were the reason for my success.” That word alone is enough to revive in him the passion of the past years.
Perhaps the most memorable moment is the one that brought me together one day with some of my students after many years. They were mature men who held high positions. I was standing at a public ceremony when two of them approached me and smiled with that look that is unmistakable in the memory of the heart. Then they raised their hats with a poignant military salute. I could not help myself. A hot tear rolled down my face. I felt in that moment that… Time, despite its cruelty, did not forget me, and what I had instilled in them of love for life and respect for humanity grew slowly in beautiful silence. That pause summed up my entire journey, and confirmed to me that a teacher is not one who teaches lessons, but rather one who leaves an indelible mark on the soul. That day, I felt that I was not only a teacher, but a mother who nurtures before she teaches, who embraces before she rebukes. You build a human being before handing him a certificate.
Today, when I reflect on the meaning of “Teachers’ Day,” I see it as a mirror of the entire society: Are we honoring the idea or the occasion? The most beautiful thing we can give to a teacher is not a rose or a certificate, but rather to live what he taught us, to carry his values in our behavior, not in our words. Gifts fade away, but the impact remains.
How beautiful it is for the years to pass, and after so many years, fate brings us together in one place, and I see in the eyes of those who were young yesterday a look of sincere gratitude, and I hear one of them say to me in a trembling voice: You were the teacher who taught us life before letters, and your memory never fades from our memory. Only then do I realize that time does not age as long as the teacher and his giving are respected, and that the most beautiful gift a teacher can receive is… A moment of sincerity like this brings back to the heart the reassurance of a message that cannot be bought and cannot be extinguished by forgetfulness.
