Cune Magazine
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A Gift To My Elementary School in Gaza By Ramzy Baroud I collected three hundred dollars to send to my old elementary school in the Nuseirat refugee camp in Gaza. The purpose of the gift, as I
outlined to my fifth grade English teacher, Zaki, was to honor the pupils of the barely standing refugee school. “To honor students with good grades?” my teacher proposed. “No, all the students.” I knew too well that the amount of money could hardly repair one damaged wall in the tattered school, still run by the United Nation
Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA). I knew that three hundred dollars would even fall short of obtaining brand new chairs for only one of the classrooms, with battered roofs that block neither rain nor sun. But I
didn’t have the heart to exclude any of these young, tired faces from a possible smile of joy or happiness the three hundred dollars could bring, however little it might be. Over two decades have passed since my “graduation” and entry to the Middle School, also run by UNRWA.
Separating the two schools was a wall, which the students eventually toppled over to make an easy escape route for the first and second graders during Israeli army raids. Its unfortunate that most of the images that crowd my memory, despite the passing of time, are of some reference to soldiers, military
jeeps, bullets, teargas and the dark smoke from burnings tires. Strangely, I managed to forget the names of some of my best friends in the first grade, but remember too well the first army attack on our school.
A few soldiers crept in from the least popular corner of the school, near an old orchard, and began firing teargas into the schoolyard. I knew I was suppose to run, but didn’t know where exactly, since my
tears, fear and the unbelievable pain in my throat left me nearly paralyzed. Unlucky for us first graders, the raid was initiated from our end of the school. We ran in circles screaming for our mothers to come and
help. Some of us managed to escape, others like me fell on the sand, on top of my giant schoolbag, having no sense of direction. It was then that the sixth graders came to our rescue, some distracting the
soldiers and others escorting the rest of us out. I didn’t know that this was to be expected. But I later learned that it was an old school tradition. It was also a sad tradition for the parents to flood the
school area in a panic, some still in their pajamas, looking for their children. I ran home to tell my mother all about it. The tears, snot, and sand covering my face were enough to tell it all. But as I began
visualizing the glorious story I was about to tell in my head, and as I pictured her hugging me and running to get me a falafel sandwich to ease my pain, I spotted her running toward the school herself, looking
for me, full of dust, tears, and shouting my name. So much for my original story of grandeur, narrating my heroic encounter with the soldiers. Later, I learned that the sixth graders played the role the protectors of the school. It was indeed “cool” being a sixth grader. I
couldn’t wait for this rite of passage, when I could repay the favor. And I did, more times than I ever hoped for. But one particular memory managed to find its way through the dust, smoke, and crying children: the day when the UNRWA truck came with
our school’s ration of balls. The UNRWA truck used to come on the first week of each school year. The driver would step out, as hundreds of little eyes gazed at him, calculating every move he made until he
would enter the “Teachers’ Room.” A few minutes later, it would be official: the United Nations didn’t fail us, they delivered three balls: a soccer ball, a volleyball, and a basketball. But since we
had to share these three balls between hundreds of students, all three balls were used for soccer. Only the strongest kids played soccer with the basketball. Now that was a challenge. Mohamed Diab, our art, geography, history, and math teacher was also our physical education teacher. He was like a father to all of us,
and like my father, he had no patience, especially when two or more classes had a PE session at the same time. Eventually, he would throw the balls into the crowd of students and let scores of students kick the
ball around in any direction they wished. No rules, no referees and no questions. He would then leave us for a badly needed smoke and a pitch-black cup of tea. I hardly participated in that deadly game of
soccer. To satisfy my eagerness to kick something, anything, I used to kick whatever can of soda was lying around. My soccer can game would only catch on when the three balls were either busted or stolen toward
the end of each year. Now I look back at these days to realize how hard life was and still is for Palestinian refugees, for my classmates, then and now. Many
of my friends made it to universities and failed to find a decent job afterward. Others were killed by the Israeli army. Some joined resistance groups. Many were imprisoned. And the rest are still in the camp,
fighting for survival while holding onto the dream of return to Palestine, from where their parents were forced to flee over fifty years ago. My fifth grade teacher, Zaki, who was the first to show me how to write my name in English, is supposed to call me with a proposal of how
to use the three hundred dollars. Maybe I should ask him to purchase dozens of soccer balls, so that no student is ever forced to kick a rusty can of soda for six years. Maybe I should have him buy special
thank you presents for all the sixth graders who have continued to protect the younger ones all these years. But with all honesty, I don’t wish for the roofs to be repaired. I loved it when birds flew into the classroom to feed their young. It
was a pleasant distraction from a boring math lesson, to watch the baby birds, as they would sing whenever their mothers returned, carrying a tiny piece of bread. It always reminded me of my own mother; who I
saw too often, running to the school, distressed and sometimes barefoot, calling my name. I wish I had the chance to tell her how much that meant to me. God bless her soul. Ramzy Baroud recently finished compiling Search Jenin: Eyewitness Accounts of the Israeli Invasion 2002. To learn more click here. If you like this article, post it on your favorite website or e-mail it to your friends.
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