Learning in the Dark: What a Kerosene Lamp Taught Me About Equity in Education

During the First Gulf War, I studied for my law degree by the light of a kerosene lamp.

Electricity was cut. Water was scarce. My mother was sick. I rationed every drop and baked bread between studying.

We were lucky to have some flour to bake with—not first-grade, not organic. I didn’t even know what type it was. It came through Saddam Hussein’s food ration program. I knew the truth behind it: a country between two rivers, once rich with farmland, could no longer grow its own wheat. War and dictatorship had burned everything—no farms, no tools, nothing left to grow with.

Out of 500 students, only 12 of us graduated that year. I was one of them.

I didn’t beat the odds. I lived them.

I picked up my books and notes during raids. Strange, maybe—but studying law and human rights gave me hope. It allowed me to find light through the wreckage.

I didn’t beat the odds. I lived them.

I also picked up knitting. We had some leftover yarn at home. I knitted the ugliest white-and-blue checkered vest you could imagine. But focusing on that pattern, stitch by stitch, gave me peace of mind.

I didn’t beat the odds. I lived them.

📚 That’s why I don’t romanticize education. I respect it. I don’t assume students are unmotivated—I ask what they’re walking through just to show up.

We say education is the great equalizer. But that only works if the classroom comes with light, water, and safety. Without those, we’re not measuring effort—we’re measuring access.

Equity doesn’t mean treating all students the same. It means meeting learners where they are in their academic journey—without favoring one learner over another based on ease, comfort, or familiarity.

When I became Minister of Environment, my first act wasn’t a policy memo—it was a water campaign. Because you can’t educate children who are thirsty. You can’t grow communities if you ignore their basic needs.

🧭 This is where grant writing comes in.

What if we wrote proposals not just to raise test scores, but to stabilize the ground beneath our students?

What if our needs assessments asked:

• Do students have electricity at home?

• Can they boil water safely?

• Do they walk to school in the heat without shoes?

When we tell the truth in our grants, we invite others to fund a different kind of future.

I didn’t learn grant writing through formal training. I taught myself—reading applications line by line, analyzing RFPs, drafting concept papers for every opportunity I came across. I created folders and subfolders to track each proposal, building a system from scratch. When the first attempt didn’t work, I didn’t stop—I asked for feedback, rewrote, and tried again.

My motto was simple: keep applications moving forward.

Over time, that mindset translated into real funding:

• $70 million for environmental and public service programs in Iraq (2004)

• $150,000 for nonprofit programs in one year (2009)

• $46,000 last year to support an educational initiative

It was never about writing perfectly. It was about writing honestly—and persistently—until the right door opened.

Grant writing taught me something school never did: You don’t wait for change. You build it.

🎒 Tool for Educators: Environmental Equity Walk

Step outside the classroom. Ask students to document all the environmental factors in their school or neighborhood that affect their ability to learn: access to light, clean water, restrooms, ventilation, shade, sidewalks.

This is where awareness begins—not just with standards, but with the systems around them.

💬 Call to Action

If you’ve ever taught without electricity—or learned with only one working fan—you know what I mean.

🧠 What’s one environmental factor that has shaped your teaching or learning journey? 📩 And if you write grants, how are you using your narrative to tell the whole truth—not just the test scores?

Let’s keep learning—light or no light.