They told me, “Write!”

I wrote, but when I was halfway through, I came to my senses and asked myself “What are you writing? Who would care about your past life, how you came to know the school and what happened on your first day?”

So I am rewriting, and trying to keep it simple:

This wasn’t a school for me, these were not my students, they were not my colleagues.

This is my home, these are my friends, they are my sisters.

Yes, in these colorful little rooms, I breathed, I laughed, and I shed tears; these were my lessons to the children, so my soul grew along with theirs.

I wasn’t there this year. And for months I feel like I have left a piece of my heart somewhere…

Maybe I left it among the pieces of wood of the pigeon’s nest in the yard, maybe next to the pages of one of the books, under the benches? Or on the craft shelves?

No… I remembered! There must be a place among the children’s hearts for it; so even if my heart is now incomplete, yes, it is in a good place.

They say “the teacher is the guardian of love”. I hope I deserve to be a teacher at the school of love.

Ms Naemeh Aalaee (volunteer teacher in 8th grade)

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