The first day of summer-school swiftly dawns upon us and butterflies begin their morning rush, right on schedule. We arrive at the girls’ school to find them standing in straight lines, a few girls deviating in rebellion, trying to catch our attention. Their ages range from 7-15. It’s difficult not to smile amid the commotion and the stares of eager anticipation as the children yearn to know who their teacher will be for the next four weeks. And believe me, the anticipation was mutual.
We’re soon allocated our classes and given the nod to lead our girls to the classrooms. The average age of the girls I taught was circa 11 and the level of their English was very basic. I’d like to think my kids were happy to have been allocated me as their teacher and once we were in the classroom, their personalities shone through immediately. They were not as shy as I thought they would be, considering they weren’t used to being taught by a young male teacher. I smiled as I identified the quiet ones, the loud ones, the mischievous ones, the bright ones, the ones looking to impress. I chuckled at the sound of all these questions suddenly being thrown at me:
“Are you Muslim?” “Your sister?” “You love Palestine?”
My girls were a real breath of fresh air. They wore the biggest smiles and some flaunted a cheeky swagger, which I found hilarious. I assured them that all their questions would eventually be answered and quite frankly, I found it difficult to even start the lesson I had prepared the night before. All in all, they were brilliant; their mischief never crossed the line and I decided not to go through the rules as I intended; it proved unnecessary. This, I found to be a recurring episode – i.e. nothing usually went to plan and no matter how well prepared I showed up, there was always something novel waiting to bite me in the ass and test me to my limits. This was more apparent with the boys anyway.
I eventually managed to start the lesson. The girls made their mock passports and we practised the basic structure of likes and dislikes. I discovered very early that many of the children lacked creativity, that imaginative spark that children in the UK seem to develop so intuitively. It’s easily taken for granted. Maybe this stemmed from a fear of revealing too much but I found many of the girls to be reluctant to express their likes and dislikes and were much more inclined to simply reproduce my work. I also considered that the lack of their English language skills may have contributed to their reluctance.
The class lasted for 90 minutes before we made our way to the boys’ school, located next to the girls’ school. There was more of an aura of chaos that you just get with boys – the shouting a little wilder and their movements a little unnatural, as they nearly deafened us with raucous cheers and animated impressions of their favourite wrestlers. I took a deep breath. We were assigned a boys class each, roughly the equivalent of our girls classes in terms of age and level. The boys followed me towards the class until we were out of sight, after which they ran past me, definitely an illegal move, and scurried to the classroom before me.
I stepped into the classroom to find two of the kids standing on top of the desks; they looked at me and laughed. In hindsight, the most hilarious thing about the whole episode was that they looked at me like a deer unwittingly caught in headlights. But I was like, “Dude, you knew I was coming, I was like 10 seconds behind you!” They giggled as they stepped down – in truth, I think they wanted to get caught; they loved the attention it got them. Right then, I knew that this was going to be a very different teaching experience from the girls. The sane/insane balance was restored and I quickly learnt they all had an element of mischief lurking in them – after all, boys will be boys.
The boys were really excited but certainly more challenging than the girls. What happened next was the first of many occurrences which demonstrated the fact that it is impossible to be prepared for everything. One method I sought to use to positively reinforce good work or behaviour was the use of stickers and stars. It encourages children to work harder and instigates healthy competition...so you would think. No sooner had I handed a few out, I was bombarded by the frontline of a school mob – harmless, competitive, but boy did they want a gold star! I rushed them back to their seats and reiterated what was required from them to earn what they desired. They smiled and nodded, which I took as an acknowledgement of their understanding. My mistake. They were soon out of their seats again, ripping off stickers and stars that were stuck on work already stuck on the walls. What a nightmare. I remember retrieving a star from one of the kids just a he was about to lick it –his saliva acting as an adhesive before he stuck it onto his work- and he laughed heartily as he licked his fingers by accident. I was quick. Hilarious to think back on it and I loved the little rascals, I still do. In the moment, not so much. Another thing they loved to do was to steal the chalk and God knows they were the worst thieves. But deep down, like I said before, I think they wanted to get caught, just another way to get my attention. More examples of a similar nature will follow in subsequent posts. This is what it’s all been building up to and just like that, the first day of school came to a swift end.
Later, I spoke to a Palestinian teacher who told me some of the difficulties he faced. The conversation developed after I mentioned how fortunate I was to pray in Masjid al-Aqsa, which I now realise may have been insensitive. Most of the people I spoke to have never visited the masjid despite living no more than 40 miles away. The truth is that without a permit, near impossible to obtain, the Palestinians outside of Jerusalem simply have no hope to visit the Masjid which they feel an obligation towards. To emphasise the severity of the restrictions imposed, even though there are permits available for Palestinians to attend Friday prayers, these are limited to those over 40 years old and even the youth of Jerusalem are not allowed to enter the holy grounds; I spoke to many people who expressed a desire to be older for ease of access, not just to Jerusalem but even in their own locality. Tragic. To hear it directly from the people affected really hit home.
The day fades into a more tranquil night as we have an invitation to eat at G’s house. G is an UNWRA employee who catered for our every need during our time at the camp and we were able to call him at any time – in short, he was a Godsend; a G. Makloubeh was on the menu – a mouth-watering rice dish that just melts in the mouth, so lovingly made for us by G’s wife who was so befittingly referred to as ‘the president.’ I guess the dish is the Palestinian equivalent of ’biryani ’. We were fed to our hearts content in the presence of G’s four beautiful children as they laughed and taught us how to count in Arabic. I smiled so much, it hurt my cheeks. I’ll tell you more about them later.
This was the first time I really thought about my family, only because I was answering questions about them. The truth is, I’ve just never been one to get homesick but I thought about my life back in the UK, a life of consumerism, where we have a choice and we choose to conform. It was then I felt so poor, spiritually, and many of the things I prioritise back at home, at that moment, seemed so trivial. It was quite late before we were able to head back to where we staying, followed by a bleak attempt to make some preparations for the following day whilst oxygen endeavoured to push its way through the makloubeh. High on rice, I’m not quite sure what happened next...
...probably just a whole lot of mental preparation to face the kids tomorrow.
Peace.
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