Between Loss and Lessons: Angham Mattar

Angham Mattar never expected her life to shift so drastically. At 25, she was managing an education project for the Social Development Forum called "Youth Networks for Learning and Well-being." Her work focused on designing programs that helped children and youth regain a sense of growth after two years of disrupted education. But after October 2023, nothing remained the same.

"I saw our best students trading textbooks for water jugs," she says. "Their futures paused, replaced by survival. I couldn’t bear to stand still."

Before the war, Angham was immersed in youth innovation and entrepreneurship. She led a startup incubator that nurtured young people’s ideas, supported their ventures, and connected them to global exchange opportunities. But when the bombs fell, priorities changed. The incubator closed. Education disappeared. Grief arrived.

"I lost my entire family in a bombing. It was my neighbors' home that was targeted, but the explosion took everything," she recalls. "I didn’t want to live. I disconnected from the world. Months passed. Then one day, I realized: if I’m still alive, then I owe it to them to do something."

She returned to the field with what little strength she had left. Her mission became urgent: bring education back to children. Set up makeshift classrooms. Organize final exams in tents. Train youth volunteers. "Seeing the children show up for exams after everything they’d endured, it lit something inside me again. They refused to let the war steal their futures."

Despite the danger and despair, Angham kept going. Her workdays included walking through camps, managing unstable internet connections, and supporting volunteers who were just as traumatized as the children they served.

"The fear wasn’t just from drones. It was from the lawlessness. We had gangs robbing shelters, women afraid to step outside. And still, I pushed through. Because someone had to."

She channels her grief into purpose. "My parents are with me. I hear them in everything I do. Their words, their support. They're my strength."

But the toll is immense. Exhaustion is daily. Work never ends. And there is little room for personal space. "Sometimes, the only peace I get is five minutes before the world wakes up. I sit alone, breathe, and gather myself."

Being a woman in the field adds another layer of complexity. "People are broken. They want aid, not programs. They don’t see the point in education when they’re starving. You have to earn their trust, show up consistently."

Still, Angham knows her presence matters. She sees it in the way mothers open up to her, in the way youth seek her guidance. "I understand them. I see them. That makes all the difference."

Her message to other women is defiant: "Don’t wait for things to get better. Be the reason they do. From inside the pain, something new can grow."

And her hope for Gaza?

"To see families reunited. To live without fear. To have a voice that’s heard globally not just as victims, but as people who have survived, spoken, and led."

If she had one minute to speak to the world, she’d say:

"We are being erased. Day by day. Our mornings begin with loss. End the genocide. Because we still love life."