Epigraph: Dr. Refaat Alareer may no longer be with us, but his words continue to live through his students. And through them, his voice is still heard.
Dr. Refaat Alareer, Professor of English Literature at Islamic University in Gaza, stands at the front of the classroom in the video. I am watching the video for my online class. He is looking off to his right toward the back of the room. His beard and mustache are neatly trimmed and his mouth is set at rest as he pauses to listen. He is holding his hands in front of him. They are clasped with one hand on top of another that is upside down. In the video, this is the listening pose he uses when students speak. It is 2024, less than a year after Dr. Refaat Alareer’s assassination, and I am watching Dr. Refaat’s lecture on video as a literature student at Islamic University in Gaza.
When I entered the program, I enrolled in courses in Poetry and Introduction to Literature. At that time, we had only experienced a very short period of face-to-face learning, about three weeks in September 2023, before everything changed. Those early weeks were our first real contact with university life, but they were quickly interrupted when the genocide began. Education was suddenly disrupted, campuses became inaccessible, and students were forced to continue their studies from wherever they could. Technology, which had once felt like simply another part of modern education, suddenly became the bridge that allowed teachers to continue reaching their students and students to continue learning despite being separated from their classrooms. In the middle of all this, Dr. Refaat Alareer’s recorded lectures became a central part of my academic journey.
Photo by Amna Dmeida.
My journey at the university began in an unexpected way. Before my university life took its shape on campus, it had already begun in a very different form, through a screen. In 2023, I registered at the Islamic University of Gaza as an English Literature student. But the process itself did not feel like a traditional start to university life. There were no classrooms, no campus walks, and no first-day introductions in lecture halls. Instead, my first steps into higher education were taken online, through digital registration, virtual platforms, and recorded instructions that guided us into a new academic world.
At the beginning, everything felt unfamiliar. I had to learn how to navigate the university’s online systems from scratch, how to access lectures, submit assignments, and follow announcements. Even simple academic routines became something I had to adapt to carefully. My days were shaped by recorded lectures, unstable internet connections, and frequent electricity cuts. Studying required patience and persistence, not only academic effort. Yet, despite all the challenges, I continued. Education became something I held onto tightly, especially in a time when everything else around us felt uncertain.
During the end of 2024 and the rest of 2025 and 2026, we continued watching his lectures that had been recorded by him. It was a deeply painful and unusual experience to continue learning from someone who was no longer alive, yet whose voice remained present in our education.
There were moments when I was watching him through the screen and felt as though he was speaking directly to me. His words did not feel like distant academic explanations. They carried something personal, something that awakened in me a sense of loyalty, anger, and determination—a feeling that I should continue learning, continue writing, and continue the path of education that he had helped open for us.
One of his most powerful lessons stayed with me: “Not every freedom fighter has a gun; you can fight with your words.”
Another deeply impactful message was: “Write stories about your land, because you will love your land through stories, and you will love stories because they are about your land.”
These words helped me understand that literature is not only about reading and analysis, but also about preserving identity, protecting memory, and expressing belonging. They made me realize that words can be a form of resistance, and storytelling can be a way of staying connected to one’s homeland.
Over time, I found myself looking forward to his lectures with genuine anticipation. His teaching was not distant or abstract; it was full of meaning and emotional depth. Literature became something I could relate to, not just study.
Before his assassination, Dr. Refaat left behind words that became widely shared and deeply influential. His final message began with: “If I must die, you must live to tell my story…” These words spread across social media, news platforms, and classrooms worldwide, becoming a powerful symbol of testimony, perseverance, and the responsibility of storytelling. Even after his death, his voice continued to reach people, reminding the world of the power of words and memory.
I remember the way his presence changed when he connected a literary work or a poem to Palestine. He would stand upright at the front of the classroom, his posture carrying a sense of confidence and defiance. His gaze became sharper when he spoke about Palestine, as if the literature he was explaining had suddenly moved beyond the pages of a book and become part of something much larger.
When he spoke about the occupation, war, or destruction, his expression became serious. His voice could rise as he explained an idea, carrying urgency and intensity. Then, when he mentioned Gaza, his tone would sometimes drop, becoming quieter for a moment before rising again with a sense of challenge. His eyes seemed sharper then, filled with anger and determination.
Despite his absence, his lectures remained alive in our academic journey. Through them, literature was never presented as an isolated theory. Instead, he connected poetry, stories, and plays to memory, identity, loss, and the Palestinian experience. His teaching transformed literature into something deeply personal and closely tied to reality.
Later, after a long period of disruption caused by the ongoing aggression, the Islamic University announced the return of face-to-face education. This return was not simple or complete; it was an act of endurance and continuation despite destruction. The university had suffered severe damage, and there were not enough classrooms, desks, or resources to accommodate all students. As a result, in-person learning was limited mainly to first-year students, while many others, including me, continued our studies online.
While watching Dr. Refaat Alareer’s lectures, I often felt as if I had known him for years. His gestures, expressions, and words carried the weight of life lessons rather than ordinary academic teaching. His presence remained strong, even through recorded lectures. Even through a screen, I could see the shift in his expression when a literary discussion became a discussion about Palestine. I could hear the change in his voice when he spoke about Gaza, and I could feel the determination behind his words.
Although I never met him in person, his influence continues to shape the way I think, learn, and write. His legacy reminds me that education is not only about knowledge, but also about courage, humanity, and the power of words. Through him, I learned that even in the most difficult circumstances, writing and learning can remain acts of hope and resistance.
3 October 2026
Dr Refaat Alareer: Lessons Beyond the Classroom, by Amna Dmeida
Featured Image by Alaa Dmeida “Attending the online recorded lectures for the ‘Introduction to English Literature’ course, presented by Dr. Refaat in 2025.”
