Journey to Palestine: Day 12

I wake up to what feels like a drunken stupor; in fact, it has to be the closest I’ll ever come to feeling hung-over. My head was throbbing. This is going to be the most absurd thing you have ever heard but the feeling I got was as if my brain, yes my brain, had a mind of its own. I’m sure many can relate to the feeling where your brain assaults the inside of your head every time you move. It was analogous to being a rain-stick; you turn the stick and then it takes a second for the small beans or rice make their way to the...I have no idea what I’m talking about. I think I’m just rambling as large parts of day 12 remain a blur to me. The pain in my stomach had somewhat alleviated and after taking a cold shower and more than the recommended dose of Paracetamol, I had decided that the kids would not go without a teacher, not today.

Under-prepared, cast under a medicinal spell and woozy as hell, I somehow managed to make it to the girls’ school. The girls were relatively subdued but with my senses heightened, the softest of sounds were like shrapnel to the brain. I sat down as the girls lined up outside, clearly aware that there was something not quite right with me. I knew I was going to have to drag the lesson out. Perhaps I should’ve stayed in (that thing I called my) bed but I didn’t want to risk the kids having no teacher at all. I was joined by two new girls who had transferred from the other summer camp to be part of my class. That should be flattering, right? Well, no...because it didn’t make sense. I took a deep breath, scratched my head and knelt down by the desk where the two new pupils were sat. What then ensued can only be described as a brief grilling as I asked the girls why they joined my class. It was surreal. I don’t know what the hell I was doing and the girls looked genuinely scared because they had no idea what I was asking of them. Plus, the zombified persona which I had adopted due to illness was one that later even scared me when I accidentally caught sight of myself in the mirror. But here I am, thinking clearly, asking you – Why, oh why, would someone want to leave FREE SHAWARMAS, FREE T-SHIRTS and exhilarating lessons to join my class? Believe me, I wasn’t a fantastic teacher. They must have been spies. Oh dear God, thinking back, those poor girls must’ve been terrified. Totally explains why the class was so quiet that day! It must’ve been the equivalent of having a lesson facilitated by Hannibal Lecter.

Like I said, I dragged the lesson out. I wasn’t miserable though, I’m sure the smile was there, somewhere, noticeable if you looked closely enough, and maybe squinted. The class practised ‘You Are My Sunshine’ today and a lot of them had really improved. I was genuinely impressed and most of them it seems were competing to impress. As with the boys yesterday, the girls learnt the names of different foods today and started drawing out some of their favourites onto paper plates. After a while, I think some of the girls picked up the vibe that the lesson was hitting a dead end and bless them, they started co-ordinating the lesson themselves. One girl shouted, “Fast Fingers!”, followed by nods of approval and ascending squeals of joy by the others. One of the girls, Alma, was a clear favourite to win – she was incredibly bright, her English and maths skills were outstanding for the level she was working at and she was fiercely competitive. After winning three games in a row, her next opponent stood up and then turned to me to ask me a couple of questions. The questions she asked had become almost customary, no more unusual than being asked what my name was: “You love Palestine? You love Israel?” She looked as if she had just been in deep thought, wanting to ask the questions for a while, waiting for the right moment. Surely, they knew the answers to these questions? I simply construed it in the way a parent will ask their child: “Do you love me?” The answer is known but it’s always uplifting to hear.

Everything has its end and just like that, class was over and I dragged my feet over to the boys’ school. At this point, I felt worse and found it difficult to swallow even the smallest amount of water. Unlike the other days, the boys said very little as they lined up outside, apparently staring at the evil twin of their usual teacher. Maybe some of the pupils misconstrued my sickness as fury because no sooner as we entered the classroom, a few of them walked out and I had no energy left to stop them. Perhaps they gathered that misbehaviour would not be tolerated today, the irony being that today was the day where my sickness meant that intolerance could not be afforded. For a few moments, I sat behind my desk in silence, slowly sipping on some water. The rest of the pupils stared back at me in pin-drop silence, probably assuming that their teacher had finally cracked and sensing the beginning of the end. No one is burdened beyond his scope. It’s funny, today turned out to be one of the better lessons. With the trouble-makers gone, I was left with pupils eager to learn and keen to impress. It was actually bizarre to have them so quiet and even found myself whispering to a teacher who had come to check up on the class, in an impetuous effort as to not disturb the ambience of the classroom. This virus had me acting craazaay. The actual lesson I carried out with the class revolved around...well, we talked about...what we did was...we looked at...ok fine, I can’t remember anything but seriously, I was completely out of it. You can’t expect me to remember everything.

After class, I left my colleagues behind to rush back to the community centre, our humble abode, my sanctuary. I actually ran. I have no idea where that second wind came from. There was no real thinking involved. I just wanted to be out of the sun and get into bed – my brain told my feet and my feet obliged. Upon entering the community centre, a sweet smell led me to the kitchen. An aromatic trail was almost tangible, like something out of a cartoon and Hansel followed the trail to find a humongous cake sitting there on the kitchen table. Admittedly, my taste-buds were off key and my stomach seemed to growl as if to say, “Dont you f-ing dare!” But...but...the sisters working at the community centre had so lovingly made it for us. It’d be rude not to at least try it. Ha, I didn’t even wait for the others. I spat in the face of constipation, knowing full well that later on that night, it would spit right back at me. I couldn’t thank the ladies enough; we made small talk and after taking that first bite of cake, I was already starting to regret it. Anyway, after around my 12^th bite, I rushed to the bathroom and the rest, as they say, is...bloody disgusting. I’ll save you on the gory details but one thing that’s worth the mention is that the sewage system couldn’t cope with paper being flushed down the toilet, so it had to be disposed in a bin that was placed by the toilet. So, not only was I dying but as I sat on the floor of the bathroom, my wilting body taking support against the toilet and my head hovering over it, I had nothing but disposed toilet vapours to keep me company! I apologise; there was no need for that :D

For the first time, I was uber relieved that I didn’t have an afternoon project scheduled for the day and neither was I looking forward to planning the lesson to be facilitated at the university tomorrow, focussing on ‘Islam in Britain’. I lay down on the mattress and sleep overpowered me. A few hours later, I woke up to the sound of children laughing outside and shouting my name. A stone or two struck the window as I barely found the energy to muffle in between my dying groans *cue sympathy* – “Go awaaaaay,” I bellowed. Well, I say bellowed but I doubt I could manage anything more than a stifled groan. My mind drifted to another one of our groups who were working in another camp where water restrictions meant that they were reduced to having weekly showers. Ugh. It’s important to remind ourselves of what we don’t have to really appreciate the things that we do.

At this point, the room was intolerably humid and I was drenched but I was barely able to move. It was getting dark outside and unexpectedly, I was instilled with a renewed impetus in response to the call of prayer. Without delay, I showered and made the brisk walk to the masjid. Salah had already begun and I joined the congregation. To be honest, being in a state of inertia, it just felt like I was going through the motions but it was certainly more tranquil than rotting on that mattress. After salah, I ran into G, our closest friend in the camp. It was a blessing. After a day consisting of very little food and even less water, he took me to his home and in a paternal manner, compelled me to eat yoghurt with olive oil, chips and soup which his wife, ‘the president’, had made for me. Also, though I had avoided it all day, I drank some tea blended with sage to help ease my sore stomach. While I still felt quite sickly, I was really glad to have eaten something. G’s children tried to get a smile out of me but I’m sure I must have been horrible company to be around.

After thanking him for his hospitality, I rushed back to the community centre. It was only wise that I remained within close proximity to the bathroom. I had hardly spoken to my colleagues today and barely spoke with them when I returned. They were occupied with lesson-planning and I headed straight for the mattress. I lay there for a while, staring blankly at the ceiling. All of a sudden, I jolted at what sounded like a thunderous fighter jet, rocketing above us, drowning out all other sound in the process. It never got any easier listening to that and something which I don’t think I could ever get used to.

I have just realised that this post is enveloped in narcissism and has very little to do with Palestine, so for that I apologise. But what can I say, is it so awful to ask for a little attention and a little affection every now and then?! lol ok, I’ve just been told that it is. Noted.

Here’s hoping tomorrow is a better day.

Khader Adnan: The Heart of a Lion

Wake up, get up, it’s been 62 days,

As we lie in our beds, time is slippin’ away,

Like his restless soul, which cries out to be free,

Free from the shackles or begs from this world a release.

What remains after liberty? Nothing save slavery,

And a symbol of hope, a blinding light of silent bravery.

Allah knows best how much a soul can take,

And though it seems the world has stopped tryin’,

I envy your spirit which refuses to break,

Those soldiers know they’re faced with the heart of a lion.

Release him from this madness, this bitter tyranny,

Why do I feel like a dog set loose in a forsaken cemetery?

Forced to hear the cries of the dead and the dying,

Whilst the world does nothing, nothing, yet becomes tired of trying

To liberate a person, a person, a human being,

What am I missing? Don’t take a backseat, let me try and explain to you what you’re not seeing.

Allah knows best how much a soul can take,

And though it seems the world has stopped tryin’,

I envy your spirit which refuses to break,

Those soldiers know they’re faced with the heart of a lion.

Adhering to their sanctions, we pay our dues and thank em,

Thinking we played it smart, oblivious to the consequences of our actions.

Standing on the safe side, fearing the brave side,

Pretending not to see his father weep by his grave side.

Yes, he has a father, a brother and a mother,

Children and a wife just like any other.

Allah knows best how much a soul can take,

And though it seems the world has stopped tryin’,

I envy your spirit which refuses to break,

Those soldiers know they’re faced with the heart of a lion.

Not forgetting others, like in Tamimi, we lost a gem,

But rest assured that the Almighty won’t fail to judge between them.

For him, it was the right time, right place,

Coz he had the right to be there, the right not to have a canister shot in his face.

Allah knows best how much a soul can take,

And though it seems the world has stopped tryin’,

I envy your spirit which refuses to break,

Those soldiers know they’re faced with the heart of a lion.

The ummah is a community; closer still, it’s like a body,

So the pain that’s felt by one should be pain absorbed by everybody.

Feeling hurt, feeling helpless just sitting at home,
But it’s important to remind one another that we’re never alone,
His family are in my thoughts, his wife, may Allah relieve her
pain, and let’s not underestimate dua, the weapon of a believer.

Wake up, get up, it’s been 62 days,

As we lie in our beds, time is slippin’ away.

There are no veils between the prayers of the oppressed and their Lord.

Khader Adnan's face appears on posters during a protest in Gaza City. Photograph: Mohammed Abed/AFP/Getty Images

Journey to Palestine: Day 11

On the advice of one of my colleagues, I thought that I would give ‘Wink Murder’ a trial run with my students today. For those of you who haven’t heard of it, fear not, it’s nothing sinister. It’s a game which involves people standing in a circle; one individual is assigned the role of ‘murderer’ with the ability to murder others by winking at them. If a player is winked at, he must feign sudden death – the more dramatic, the better. One player is assigned the role of ‘detective’ and he or she must stand in the middle of the circle and quickly ascertain who the ‘murderer’ is, keeping the death count to a minimum. Sounds fun doesn’t it? However, explaining this to a fidgety class using instructions mostly made up of body language and a demonstration was something I kinda dreaded.

As we arrived at the gates of the girls’ school, something was different. The vibe had changed; there was a renewed energy that was almost tangible and we all felt it. We walked into the school to catch sight of kids dashing across the playground with their vivacious, brightly painted faces, wearing uniform T-shirts bearing a colourful logo. A large sign with the same logo had been tied up from the top floor of the school and it hung down in clear view. *Cue ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’ soundtrack* Another organisation was in town. They were also providing children (the more advanced classes) with a summer camp filled with exciting lessons in English and of course, a lot of fun. Oh yes, they had gone all out. I specifically remember thinking: “This town isn’t big enough for the both of us.” I knew straight away I was going to hate them. Before I’m condemned for this statement, let me just clarify that I did not in fact hate them. Their presence was also predicated on a noble mission to provide fun activities, training and education throughout the Middle East, but I couldn’t help but feel that their presence had eclipsed us.

There was always going to be a sense of competition and the truth was, we just wouldn’t be able to compete with them. The variety and excitement which entailed their activities were unchallengeable; we didn’t have access to the kind of resources they were armed with and we were restricted to the few things that we had bought ourselves. They, on the other hand, put the FUN in the word funding that they were fortunate enough to receive. They also gave their students lunch every day! Hell, I wanted to be in their summer camp. We just had to laugh. The only reason it affected me so much was because I knew that seeing them would definitely make my students question why they were, in comparison, drawn the short straw. Absolutely hilarious to think back on the feeling I used to get every time I saw their overly-chirpy volunteers – assuming they were in fact volunteers. I jest :-) If ever there was a David and Goliath parody, that was it.

The girls were great as per usual. In fact, the greater they were, the greater drama I expected from the boys – you know, to restore the balance. I welcomed the contrast and it kept me on my toes. The girls finished off their postcards which they had started yesterday and we also had a quick game of charades to introduce their favourite foods – one girl’s portrayal of an egg was particularly amusing. During the 5-minute break, one girl entertained us all with a traditional Arabic folk song.

My classes were interrupted on a daily basis, by girls from other classes who would do their rounds, presumably after excusing themselves to go to the bathroom. Others would be sent by their teachers to borrow chalk or a board duster. Every day was the same – a girl would appear, ask for something in Arabic and then scream it louder in response to my blank expression – as if enunciating the words would somehow magically perfect my grasp of the Arabic language. Every day, the same sketch but it was comedy nonetheless.

I did get a chance to trial ‘Wink murder’ and to my surprise, they picked it up quite quickly. The only daunting part was sending the detective out of the room while we chose a ‘murderer’. I always feared that I would open the door and they’d be gone, even more so with the boys. (I know I could have just told them to turn around but they insisted on going outside, which made me even more suspicious.)

The interlude between my two morning classes was intended for me to take a breather and a refreshment to prepare myself for the boys class – mental preparation more than anything else. However, the girls would usually gang up and vow to do everything in their power to steal this time away from me. I would barely get to the bottom of the stairs before suddenly finding myself enveloped by a cluster of excited students, made to feel like an isolated antelope amid a pack of lionesses, equipped with sugary drinks, just to let me know they’ve come prepared. I could do nothing but smile as I tried to manoeuvre through the crowd, whispers of “Ismaeeeel” rustling in the wind. I knew what they wanted and it was only a matter of time before one of them piped up and asked me to pray. I kid you not, from my standpoint, it was the equivalent of what my reaction would be if a UFO landed on earth and I discovered that the aliens on board could pray. Sheesh. More often than not, I wouldn’t submit to their obstinate demands and a teacher would rescue me just in time. I then met up with my other colleagues. I welcomed these moments as there was always someone who had a class that went terribly wrong – Is it shameful that I teased someone in the face of potential breakdown? Probably. But it was only banter and it made me realise that actually, I wasn’t doing so badly after all.

We had a late breakfast in the school office and then made our way to the boys’ school, in small steps might I add, a futile attempt to shave valuable seconds from the boys’ lesson. Don’t judge me – it was hot, I was cranky and you just gotta let some shit slide. With the boys, we started to learn the names of different foods, which they then drew onto paper plates. It wasn’t completely tedious, we coloured them in as well! Ha.

As the class got under way, one boy arrived late. It was the kid who made the heart-rending postcard yesterday. He was a thin lad and quite short too, and always seemed to have an irate look on his face but I considered it a bit of an act. He kept his head low and did the gangster walk, shoulders swaying in an attempt to make it to his seat unnoticed. I stopped him in his tracks to ask why he was late – not to satisfy some power hunger I might have been feeling, which I wasn’t; it was just to let the others know that it wasn’t cool to stroll in as they pleased. He just stood there for a moment and then gave a response which I can only describe as brilliant. He raised his hands, fingers together, gesturing in a way an angry or bemused Italian would, the same gesture us Indians use to signify food. He then waved his hands and after kissing his teeth, shouted “Ustaaz! (Teacher!) Amideast! Shawarmaaaa! This, no shawarma!” Genius. Talk about securing the sympathy vote. If his English had been fluent, what he was basically saying was: “Sir, look. This is a pretty shit class. Those guys out there, they’re dishing out free shawarmas! And what have we got? Stale eggs on paper plates!” I just laughed, handed him a paper plate and told him to sit down.

I also introduced ‘Wink Murder’ to the boys. Two words – Massive Cheats! It involved one ‘murderer’ (the guy with the biggest smile on his face), one ‘detective’ (the guy pretending to be clueless) and 15 ‘potential victims’ (the whistleblowers), all not-so-subtly motioning their heads towards the murderer. Each time I picked them up on it, they laughed as if it was nothing. I didn’t really mind them cheating -  it just left me baffled how they could be having so much fun whilst the whole objective of the game was being compromised. The boys also sang me a song in Arabic; actually it was more of a rhythmic chant as opposed to a song and I have a great video of some of them, all eager to be seen on camera. As the class drew to an end, some of the naughtier kids would always stay behind as the rest of them fled and in complete silence, help me rearrange the class in preparation for the next day. The incident was stranger each time but I knew why they did it – their reasoning was simple: Piss him off during class and then later assure him that I’m a good kid at heart. They were all good kids...at heart.

The end of school followed a rush back to the community centre to pick up a few supplies and then quickly make my way into Hebron. I didn’t have much time to get to the university but there was always enough time to pick up some lunch along the way. Once in Hebron, I bought a shewama – God knows why I had such an unwavering craving for shewarma all morning :) – and a tamarind drink which a kid sold from a small stand right outside where I bought the shewarma. No seating area in sight, I resorted to squatting right outside the cafe with my back against the wall, plastic cup placed on the floor next to me. You can’t stand and eat, just no...Even if it did invite puzzled gazes from passers-by as I scoffed on my shewarma, barely chewing my food. I must’ve appeared to be a hobo; a very well dressed hobo. Huw (a colleague of mine who was also teaching at the same university) and I then hastened to catch a taxi and somehow direct him to the university. The most dreaded affair was to try and explain to the driver that I didn’t speak Arabic; they all assumed I did so it was important to quickly establish that I didn’t. The last thing I wanted was to face an angry man as he impatiently yelled at the buffoon mindlessly staring back at him.

It was my first official lesson at the university and I had quite selfishly chosen the higher level students for myself and palmed off the others to Huw. What can I say, sometimes a little assertiveness is necessary when you want something. My students were great – the class consisted of both males and females and I’d say the average age was around 24 - it was a refreshing contrast to the kids at school. Today, we discussed global issues – a lesson I have taught before and perfect to get students to practise their language skills. I introduced new vocabulary such as ‘protest’ and ‘famine’, and this gave them an opportunity to raise other issues such as the problems they were faced with.

The only time I was put on the spot was when one student asked me whether I considered it acceptable for a person to kill for his freedom. Clearly, he had very strong views on the issue, as did I, but it was just a question that wouldn’t usually surface in a standard foreign language session. Regardless, it was a fascinating lesson and I may have unwittingly provided them with several alternative methods of protest. On the advice of my coordinator, I ended the class with a question and answer session, which allowed students to work on their English fluency and also find out more about me, which they were all so eager to do...whilst others secretly took pictures of me. Not cool.

After class, one of the students brought me my passport which I had so carelessly left in the classroom. A similar incident must have taken place at least three or four more times during my time there. I was a careless douche. Two of the guys insisted that it would be easy to walk to where we needed to be and that it wasn’t too far. Don’t get me wrong, I love walking, but I defined ‘not very far’ as a 15-minute walk tops. So when an hour has passed and 45 minutes of that hour has been spent making cyclic promises at five minute intervals that I’m going to wave down the next taxi that passes, it eventually takes its toll.

I remember going quiet. I allowed the two boys and their unwavering smiles to wind me up, aggravated by the intense heat and their relentless questioning as to what was wrong with me. The only thing that kept me going was my colleague, Huw, a big lad who was equally frustrated but in a strange way, an agitated companion always causes me to become mellower, as if it’s what they need me to be. The students weren’t really to blame, not really; all they wanted was to get to know us better but what can I say, I’m only human.

After an hour and fifteen of seemingly endless ups and downs, we finally get to where we need to be. To add to the drama, for the last half an hour, I’d been quietly complaining of a really sore stomach. 32 minutes ago, one of the students had bought us all an ice cream and the devil in me was playing up, pointing fingers. In the moment, it was difficult not to get flustered.  I gradually weakened, my colleague’s concern now barely an echo. We got onto a bus and after 10 minutes, the bus departed. I held it together for the few miles we had to travel, deep inhalations coinciding with the bus as it made its way over bumps in the road. We arrived at the community centre and the countdown had begun as I raced against the clock to make it to the bathroom. Under the circumstances, I think I managed to salvage my dignity; what was left of it anyway. 

Later, I took my mattress out of the room we were sleeping in, which in the mean time had doubled up as a furnace. I moved the mattress into the hallway which was cooler. One of the locals who had effectively transformed himself into a manservant, wanting to spend every second with us, brought me some mint tea. He forced me to drink it all – no seriously, he forced me even though my weak body gathered enough strength to usher him away. He was only one step away from sitting on top of me and pouring that drink down me. I can’t remember much else of what happened that night. I slept in short bursts, wondering whether the kids would be without a teacher tomorrow.

Apologies for the needlessly lengthy post. It’s been a while.