Published on: May 1, 2026

The WhatsApp message came just after dawn: “Doctor, the road is blocked. Is it safe to come tomorrow?” This was the first thing I saw from my student that appeared like a siren, stirring tension into my heart.  Many mornings, the first thing I did was check my phone, hastily looking for the news to see if anything had happened overnight that I was not aware of.  There was a struggle in me between the responsibility of teaching and the fear of losing. Classes were scheduled, and the students’ clinical rotations and sites were meticulously set. However, Lebanon was no longer a predictable place, and crisis had become our new normal. Roads were blocked without warning, people were forcefully displaced, and often the sound of shelling could be heard in the distance. Electricity was a rare commodity, often unstable and prone to interruption, which frequently halted classes in progress. And yet, illness and patients waited for no one. The ongoing conflict directly shaped my lived experiences, affecting my daily routine as well as how I perceived and interpreted palliative care.

It had been some time since I had not been working at the bedside and had moved into nursing education, but the sense of responsibility and duty did not wane. I had to make sure these young hearts were well prepared to become competent nurses and equipped to care for people when they are ill. I believed nursing was a calling, and it is most needed when patients and families are vulnerable. Stopping our teaching would mean giving in to the situation. As an educational institution, we partially adapted and shifted theoretical teaching online. Nevertheless, the learning experience was not optimal.  Sometimes the internet connection would freeze in the middle of a sentence, and students would accommodate through attending the lectures from wherever the connection was stable, from cars or cafes or others. Once a student logged in from a stairway because it was the only place with a signal.

During these months, I found myself relying more and more on the principles of palliative care as a means of teaching and living when certainty was an exception, and death a common event. In the online didactic sessions, instead of hurrying through the slides, I presented clinical vignettes and case studies: a patient with pain that refused to take morphine, a family arguing at the bedside about the goals of care, and a nurse who was facing an ethical dilemma when care did not align with her values.  We focused on being compassionate, available, and reflective on the importance of communication. Though students were exhausted mentally, they surprised me with their input and in-depth analysis. They spoke about dignity, faith, commitment, and family presence. The language of palliative care came naturally, helping us cope with fear and pain when policies and protocols were inadequate in the face of unprecedented times.

Clinical days were the most difficult. I was often unsure how the day would end, or if we would be asked by the administration to send students home to ensure their safety. However, we continued our clinical teachings bravely but cautiously. Students commuted in groups when possible, sharing the same car. Checking which roads were safe was a daily ritual before starting the day.  I remember one day standing with a group of students outside the unit, listening to a military threat announced via social media and wondering if we should continue the day or just go back home. Despite the troubled times, we often stayed and continued with our clinical teaching. The senior nurses welcomed our students, who were perceived as relieving the unit’s nursing workload and adding a positive vibe to the environment. During these clinicals, we didn’t focus on nursing diagnoses or assessment checklists but on communication, on how to support a frightened family, how to explain to patients about reporting pain, and how to discuss what is important to them when no one dared to talk about death or dying.  During group discussions at the end of a clinical day, we highlighted moments and how nurses can affect the situation by alleviating suffering. Therapeutic presence, living with uncertainty, and showing respect were our main interventions when medicine did not provide relief.  Families who always accompanied their patients often offered us sweets or chocolates despite the troubled days. This was their way of expressing gratitude and bringing their share of care. Generosity was a strong cultural trait that did not fade away even in dark days. In those moments, bonding happened with conveying respect and compassionate presence.

However, loss was inevitable.  In an unexpected update, we heard the death of one of the nursing students. The news was almost unreal, triggering unease and surprise as it passed from phone to phone in hushed voices. One moment, he was part of our clinical groups and daily discussions, and the next, he was gone. The sadness was deep, and there was neither a clinical scenario nor a debriefing guide to handle its weight.

After a few days of mourning, classes continued, but the mood had shifted. Students became more serious, spoke less, and some cried without warning. Grief was everywhere. As educators, we were trained to support students academically and professionally, but grief enveloped us so strongly without respect to any boundaries.

We decided to pause and hold the grief by giving it space. Together with colleagues and students, we organized a small gathering at the university hall to honor his memory. It was not ceremonial in the traditional sense but a memorial. We invited his family, faculty members, and students. The family arrived quietly. His mother held his photograph close to her chest and tried to keep herself together. The father nodded at everyone, unable to speak.  One by one, students took turns speaking about their friend.  They did not speak about his grades or achievements but about his kindness. He was known for his serene calm, his kind presence, and readiness to help others.  There were tears, and there was silence. These were unforgettable moments where we all felt like a large family, sharing a space of kindness, vulnerability, and sadness.  In that room, palliative care was not a theoretical concept but a living experience. We were honoring life and holding space for a family whose loss could not be fixed, only accompanied. We were teaching, not through lectures, but through consistent support. I realized that education during a crisis is not about content coverage but about passing on values.

The family thanked the students for remembering their son not only as a student, but as a unique person who mattered. The mother was overwhelmed by the amount of support and love shown by the students, which provided her with comfort and reassurance that her son was loved. Later that day, a student approached me to express her amazement at how we pulled through such an activity. She reflected on how universities and administrators often do not display vulnerability or weakness and typically maintain an image of unwavering strength. This perception, she realized, is why the genuine display of caring and collaboration during the memorial seemed so profound and impactful. Transparency, collaboration, and compassion are values that are fostered and sought in any administration. Caring for one another was the glue that held the students and faculty together in the most intense crises.

This scenario led everyone present to question why vulnerability is so cloaked in institutional settings and what it could mean for everyone if this openness and humanity were embraced more broadly. Such reflections allowed me to consider the potential benefits of integrating vulnerability and trust-building into our values, celebrating empathy and compassion in parallel to unwavering commitment and excellence. In a country fractured by war, instability, and the loss of dreams, this human gathering felt like a quiet collective solidarity. Over the decades, conflict and economic collapse had tainted the country, leaving thousands displaced and living in dire conditions. With this gathering, we refused to let death be invisible and grief be isolating. Instead, we chose to gather, to speak, and to remember. That day taught my students something no curriculum ever could: that nursing is not only about caring for patients and families but also about supporting one another when life gets tough.

When the semester ended, students didn’t talk about grades. They shared experiences of holding a patient’s hand, speaking gently to a frail patient, massaging a patient’s back, and realizing that caring was not about having answers, but about not abandoning.

Between 2019 and 2025, Lebanon was collapsing every day, hit by multiple layers of complex problems and catastrophes. Many left and many wanted to leave the country in search of safety and stability. But in those months of intense conflict and military attacks, teaching nursing felt like an act of quiet resistance. To continue teaching about therapeutic communication, dignity, and care for the suffering, even in the face of fear, was a way of saying that humanity still existed in every soul.

I did not practice nursing at the bedside during those years, but I taught young hearts in dark hours, unstable online classrooms, and clinical units shadowed by war and uncertainty. That perhaps, too, is palliative care.

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