Years pass, generations follow, yet some names remain etched in memory—untouched by time, unshaken by the burdens of life. Among them stands the late teacher and mentor, Hasan Abu Quraik Al-Khraisat—as towering in our memories as he was in school, in society, and in every heart that knew him or learned at his hands.
Teacher Hasan is gone, but his memory has not departed. It lives on in our minds—in his laughter that still rings in the ear, in his way of teaching, in his dignified yet warm presence, and in the words that planted in us respect for knowledge, discipline, and life.
I still remember my very first day at Al-Balqa School in Al-Ayzariya, in the city of Salt, more than fifty years ago. That morning was different, a mix of fear of the unknown and excitement for discovery—until I entered the classroom and stood before you. You welcomed us like a father before being a teacher. Your cheerful face, calm smile, and kind voice—all of it reassured us.
You taught us letters, but you gave us more than that. You taught us manners, order, belonging. You entered class in your colourful, elegant suits, making us proud that our teacher honoured both knowledge and appearance, and lived as a role model in every detail.
I will never forget that board on the wall—the star chart. It was like a little balcony of honour that gave us the drive to be the best. We longed to see our names written under a star in your graceful handwriting, and we raced to excel.
Even the stick you carried was not a tool of fear, but a symbol of dignity and respect. You never raised it against a student. You only tapped it on the desk and, with your firm yet kind voice, said: “Silence!”—and the classroom fell quiet, out of respect, not fear.
You were one of those rare teachers who are hard to replace—combining firmness with mercy, strength of character with warmth of heart. You were not merely a teacher in a classroom, but a moral, behavioural, and educational guide. You showed us how to be loyal, how to respect others, and how to respect ourselves first.
Through the years, with all the changes and distances, you remained present in every meeting, every street, every occasion. Whenever we saw you, we stood in respect, bowing in gratitude. Your dignity never faded, your stature never bought—it was built over years of devotion and sincerity.
And today, as death has taken you, we bid you farewell with tearful eyes and grateful hearts. We mourn you as a father, and remember you as the first steps we ever took on the path of knowledge.
May God grant you vast mercy and reward you for all the good you planted in us—for the mark you left can never be erased.
Rest in peace, noble teacher. Your memory remains— like chalk upon the blackboard, like stars upon the wall, like pure love within the heart.
By Atef Abu Hajar
Years pass, generations follow, yet some names remain etched in memory—untouched by time, unshaken by the burdens of life. Among them stands the late teacher and mentor, Hasan Abu Quraik Al-Khraisat—as towering in our memories as he was in school, in society, and in every heart that knew him or learned at his hands.
Teacher Hasan is gone, but his memory has not departed. It lives on in our minds—in his laughter that still rings in the ear, in his way of teaching, in his dignified yet warm presence, and in the words that planted in us respect for knowledge, discipline, and life.
I still remember my very first day at Al-Balqa School in Al-Ayzariya, in the city of Salt, more than fifty years ago. That morning was different, a mix of fear of the unknown and excitement for discovery—until I entered the classroom and stood before you. You welcomed us like a father before being a teacher. Your cheerful face, calm smile, and kind voice—all of it reassured us.
You taught us letters, but you gave us more than that. You taught us manners, order, belonging. You entered class in your colourful, elegant suits, making us proud that our teacher honoured both knowledge and appearance, and lived as a role model in every detail.
I will never forget that board on the wall—the star chart. It was like a little balcony of honour that gave us the drive to be the best. We longed to see our names written under a star in your graceful handwriting, and we raced to excel.
Even the stick you carried was not a tool of fear, but a symbol of dignity and respect. You never raised it against a student. You only tapped it on the desk and, with your firm yet kind voice, said: “Silence!”—and the classroom fell quiet, out of respect, not fear.
You were one of those rare teachers who are hard to replace—combining firmness with mercy, strength of character with warmth of heart. You were not merely a teacher in a classroom, but a moral, behavioural, and educational guide. You showed us how to be loyal, how to respect others, and how to respect ourselves first.
Through the years, with all the changes and distances, you remained present in every meeting, every street, every occasion. Whenever we saw you, we stood in respect, bowing in gratitude. Your dignity never faded, your stature never bought—it was built over years of devotion and sincerity.
And today, as death has taken you, we bid you farewell with tearful eyes and grateful hearts. We mourn you as a father, and remember you as the first steps we ever took on the path of knowledge.
May God grant you vast mercy and reward you for all the good you planted in us—for the mark you left can never be erased.
Rest in peace, noble teacher. Your memory remains— like chalk upon the blackboard, like stars upon the wall, like pure love within the heart.
By Atef Abu Hajar
Years pass, generations follow, yet some names remain etched in memory—untouched by time, unshaken by the burdens of life. Among them stands the late teacher and mentor, Hasan Abu Quraik Al-Khraisat—as towering in our memories as he was in school, in society, and in every heart that knew him or learned at his hands.
Teacher Hasan is gone, but his memory has not departed. It lives on in our minds—in his laughter that still rings in the ear, in his way of teaching, in his dignified yet warm presence, and in the words that planted in us respect for knowledge, discipline, and life.
I still remember my very first day at Al-Balqa School in Al-Ayzariya, in the city of Salt, more than fifty years ago. That morning was different, a mix of fear of the unknown and excitement for discovery—until I entered the classroom and stood before you. You welcomed us like a father before being a teacher. Your cheerful face, calm smile, and kind voice—all of it reassured us.
You taught us letters, but you gave us more than that. You taught us manners, order, belonging. You entered class in your colourful, elegant suits, making us proud that our teacher honoured both knowledge and appearance, and lived as a role model in every detail.
I will never forget that board on the wall—the star chart. It was like a little balcony of honour that gave us the drive to be the best. We longed to see our names written under a star in your graceful handwriting, and we raced to excel.
Even the stick you carried was not a tool of fear, but a symbol of dignity and respect. You never raised it against a student. You only tapped it on the desk and, with your firm yet kind voice, said: “Silence!”—and the classroom fell quiet, out of respect, not fear.
You were one of those rare teachers who are hard to replace—combining firmness with mercy, strength of character with warmth of heart. You were not merely a teacher in a classroom, but a moral, behavioural, and educational guide. You showed us how to be loyal, how to respect others, and how to respect ourselves first.
Through the years, with all the changes and distances, you remained present in every meeting, every street, every occasion. Whenever we saw you, we stood in respect, bowing in gratitude. Your dignity never faded, your stature never bought—it was built over years of devotion and sincerity.
And today, as death has taken you, we bid you farewell with tearful eyes and grateful hearts. We mourn you as a father, and remember you as the first steps we ever took on the path of knowledge.
May God grant you vast mercy and reward you for all the good you planted in us—for the mark you left can never be erased.
Rest in peace, noble teacher. Your memory remains— like chalk upon the blackboard, like stars upon the wall, like pure love within the heart.
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Chalk, Stars of Memory
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