Nour Abbas Nassar

Home, to me, is not just a place—it is a feeling that cannot be described, full of life, comfort, and peace.
It is the warmth of family gatherings, the sweet memories, and the people I love.
It is the children I teach, every time we were forced to start over after displacement or bombing, every tent that turned into a classroom, and every pen we handed out that became a symbol of hope.

Home is the effort we never regret, the tears we hide so we can keep going, and the small joys we create despite everything.
We may have lost houses, but we never lost meaning. Home is inside my heart, in everything I give, and in every moment I refuse to surrender.

My journey so far has been filled with challenges and experiences that taught me a lot.
From the outside, it may look like only work or responsibility, but in truth, it has been an entire life journey.
It began with a small idea I called “School on the Road.” That idea was my lifeline during isolation, after panic attacks from the war kept me inside for 57 days.
I spent that time reading and drawing, but when I finally stepped outside, I saw the devastating effect of the war on children’s minds.
I felt I had to save them and their future, and that was the start of my path in education.

The road was full of ups and downs, of pain and joy.
I constantly wrestled with success and failure, acceptance and rejection, but I decided to be a small seed of change.
When schools were shut down and turned into shelters, children ended up on the streets. My first “school” wasn’t a real school—it was just a small space on the side of the road.
We laid a sheet on the ground and gathered children around so they wouldn’t be left without learning.
There were no supplies in the market, so I used my own. I thought deeply about how to change a community that had come to think only about water lines and food queues.
But I had strong faith that even when everything was against us, children still had the right to learn and find a safe place.

Step by step, the idea grew.
It moved from being a temporary fix to becoming a real, ongoing project.
We set up one educational tent, then two, and eventually expanded into a true field school.
Today, we have 15 learning spaces, taught over 3,500 children, and visited more than 47 camps.
Our schools have daily programs, curriculum, and recreational and psychological activities.
From “School on the Road,” we became “Schools Without Borders”—an idea that turned into reality.
Hundreds of children now come to our schools, finding hope, self-confidence, and a sense of belonging in the world.

The achievement wasn’t easy—it was full of exhaustion, tears, and fear of failure.
But every time I saw the happy eyes of a child returning to learning, I was reassured that it was all worth it.
Today, I can proudly say we made a real difference. My journey wasn’t just about education—it was about dedicating an entire life so that a generation wouldn’t be lost to war and displacement.

One of the hardest parts was that I had no background in education. I graduated in English Law and worked as a researcher and lawyer.
So, starting an educational project felt daunting, full of questions. Parents often saw education as secondary, since survival was their priority.
Convincing them it mattered was a constant challenge. Children, too, had lost motivation after long absences from school and repeated displacement.
In the beginning, we had no budget or support—it all depended on my personal effort and that of my team.
And getting help from local institutions wasn’t possible, since the community itself was struggling to survive.

But we found solutions.
We held simple awareness sessions for parents, explaining how education protects children mentally and emotionally, even in crises.
We made learning fun and flexible, turning classrooms into engaging spaces full of games, art, and creativity.
We motivated children step by step, rebuilding their trust and ability to focus.
I invested time to learn the basics of emergency education and child psychology, seeking advice from experts.
And we built an external support network, relying on donations from abroad to secure essential supplies and keep going.

One of the most powerful moments for me was the first time I stood in front of the children.
I was not a teacher, I had no training, and I was afraid they wouldn’t accept me.
But in that moment, I felt a responsibility greater than my fear. Even without being a professional teacher, my presence with them could change something.
When I saw their smiles and engagement, I felt a strange confidence, as if I could learn anything if my goal was honest and from the heart.

Another unforgettable moment was with a child who had been working before the war.
He didn’t even know how to hold a pencil, let alone write. I held his hand as he tried to write his name, his hand trembling.
When he finally managed a letter, his eyes filled with joy, shyness, and wonder—as if he had discovered himself for the first time.
That moment made me realize that all the exhaustion was worth it, that the greatest feeling is being the reason someone else finds hope.

I hope my story helps others see that change doesn’t have to begin with big steps or complete plans.
Sometimes it starts with just one brave decision not to give up.
There will never be perfect circumstances—we can still make a difference with whatever we can give.
I hope people remember the importance of education, especially for children in hardship, and that no child should lose their right to learn because of war.
Even when we are unprepared, inexperienced, or have lost everything, there is always something inside us that does not break.

Real strength is not only about enduring—it is about transforming pain into action, deprivation into determination, and fear into motivation.
My story may seem simple, but it carries a message: if you have faith in your purpose and the will to protect your dream, nothing is impossible.