It was the end of September. Our class teacher had resigned due to health reasons, and two weeks had passed since she had left the school. In that time, we were cutting loose.

A little about us: we were the most chaotic class in grade VI — class VI-B. We carried a mix of mischief, disorder and affection for our teachers. Many of them grew frustrated with our antics, yet they couldn’t help being amazed at our sudden bursts of dedication when we were in the mood, and at how lovable we could be despite the chaos.

Then came the English literature lesson. We settled down, certain it would be an easy, carefree lesson. But suddenly, a teacher walked in. She wasn’t tall, nor was she short — somewhere in between — and she was smartly dressed.

“Hello, students! I’m Miss Hibah,” rang out her voice. It was a bit unsure, maybe even nervous, but her eyes were determined. “I’m going to teach you English literature from today,” she smiled.

We were silent. Some smiled back, others weren’t sure how to react. We took out our books, and she began explaining the chapter, not missing even a tiny detail. But then the troublemakers of our class decided to test Miss Hibah and started asking silly questions.

She was clearly annoyed, yet she stayed calm and gave brief, but clear, answers. The kids were awed. No teacher had ever reacted so coolly to our totally annoying behaviour.

Days went by, the year moved forward, and the pressure on Miss Hibah kept piling up. The section head eventually appointed her as our class teacher. Determined to improve our behaviour, she began teaching us simple, but important habits — like how to manage panic, how to control anger, how to focus and much more.

I still remember when she introduced us to the idea of proactiveness: taking charge of situations instead of blaming others when things went wrong. She even gave us a chant to repeat: “Proactiveness, I’m in charge.”

Meanwhile, she struggled to cover the syllabus in time. It was the quiet support of a few students that pushed her to continue. Most of us had scored very low marks in our literature tests before Miss Hibah came. But in the midterms, our class passed with flying colours because she poured all her energy and time into us.

The next term was even more challenging. With unscheduled holidays and multiple events, we were really behind in our syllabus. Miss Hibah was frantically trying to cover the work while coping with the endless complaints made against us.

There were moments when she was tearful, or when our behaviour left her disappointed, yet she carried on — caring for us through thick and thin.

As the term came to an end, all my classmates started planning what to give her. I couldn’t think of anything. If I could, I would give her the brightest star, the most valuable gem, the most magical place by a tranquil lake — something to remind her of how precious she was to us, how her presence changed us like magic and how brightly we shone under her guidance.

The day before the exams, she sent each of us an email, telling us to believe in ourselves and that we had done our best this year. She truly loved us like a mother.

After the exams were over, I set to work on a present for her. I took a sheet of card paper and, together with my friends, filled it with everything we wanted to say to her. In the bottom-left corner, I added a little note with a pink marker:

“You’re braver than you think — you were still our class teacher, even though you knew we were crazy.”

The look in her eyes when she entered the class on the last day and saw us grinning like fools, laden with gifts for her, was worth more than anything. Our simple gifts didn’t matter; the love behind them did. Her eyes sparkled when she realised how much we loved her.

Eventually, she unrolled the card sheet we’d made. Her eyes grew wide as she read each comment. There was a drawing in the middle — a sword attacking a bunch of kids and a shield protecting them.

“Those kids are us, the shield is you and that sword is all the complaints,” I explained. She didn’t say anything, just hugged us.

I hope I get Miss Hibah as a teacher again, so that I may have the honour of being her student once more. She will always be remembered and cherished in the most beautiful corner of my heart.

As Robert Frost once said, “There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can’t move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.”

Published in Dawn, Young World, October 4th, 2025