School Daze - Part 4

‘Giggler’, as I was known during my introductory weeks, gradually befriended new pals and re-friended old ones whom he was, typically, uneasy about at first. As well as my unusual laugh, I became known for other qualities. During the break and lunchtime, the majority of the class played football, but with a tennis ball. The goalkeeper stood against the wall, his back towards us, and threw the ball high into the air. I became infamous for pleading with team-mates to set up volleys for me, letting the ball bounce so that I shoot it whilst it’s in the air.

You would often hear me shouting “VOLLEY! VOLLEY!” much to the amusement of most and annoyance of some. Once the ball bounced before my eyes, I ran towards it and shot the fading-green cannonball with all my might not towards the goal, but towards the Heavens. It always landed beyond the playground's fence and into neighbouring gardens - costing us a match and a tennis ball. Though angered at first, my classmates saw the humour in my heroics and chased me around the playground in playful vengeance.

The school’s undisputed bad-boy, Ali, also happened to be my buddy. He came from a distinguished family, his grandfather being the founder of the school; he was virtually untouchable. We were cordial towards eachother at the beginning but over time became very good friends, and took great pleasure in the fact that our friendship seemed a natural surrogate to that of our fathers, though within starkly different settings; theirs being in Najaf’s centuries-old seminaries, hub of religious and intellectual rigour, and ours in the London of Blair, Beckham and Bo Selecta. My hopelessly-bad vision meant that I sat next to him at the very front of the classroom, and he made sure that our proximity was exploited for comic purposes whenever a chance presented itself: If the English or Maths teachers came close to us to answer a question, he would slip his hand under the desk and rub my thighs so as to force a certain kind of kneejerk reaction, quite literally. The result was forever the same – I jump, he laughs, we get shouted at, lesson resumes.

Our form tutor, Miss Kazmi, had been teaching at the school since its inception in the early 90s. Before becoming our teacher, she had taught our elder siblings and so her long tenure meant much more than sound professional experience; rather, she conducted herself as though she were an elder sister as well as a teacher. She was stern but boundlessly pleasant and exuded an air of confidence, charisma and kind-heartedness. Despite that, she had forged an ominous name for herself and if you were on her bad books, life looked dim for you. She upheld a character that demanded respect from colleagues and students equally.

Miss Ameen, the aforementioned Maths teacher, was another name worthy of note. She had a jar of honey for a heart and cherries for cheeks: She was immensely kind but easily-reddened. It took guts to anger her and not laugh at the sheer speed of blood rushing through her otherwise-friendly face. I once had the misfortune of pressing that big red button during a particularly mind-boggling lesson: Algebra. She had just solved an equation that appeared to me as though it had been composed entirely of Sanskrit characters, but I nodded along like the whole deal was as simple as 1+1. Ali, it turned out, believed my little trick; he thought I had actually understood what was going on, and asked me as to why she’d solved it the way she did.

“I don’t know. She just did.”

I answered him in Arabic and referred to her only as “she.” Little did I know that even Maths teachers were to be referred to as khala, “Auntie” in Arabic, by way of showing respect. Though it was a murmur, she –sorry, khala- heard our two-sentence exchange and turned volcanic before I had time to fathom the reason behind her wrath.

“SHE?! HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR ELDERS? IS THIS HOW YOU SPEAK TO YOUR PARENTS?!”

She was berserk. I know it’s unseemly to quote her entire tirade in capital letters, but that’s really how it was. She was absolutely livid.

Being the relentlessly-polite kid that I am, her accusations confused and horrified me, and a big lump formed in my throat as my stammer-stricken defence proceeded.

“Miss, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just..” but she was in no state to listen.

Ali, like everyone else, was stunned and I remember his back straightening immediately. He turned his gaze between our desk and the wall in front us in utter silence. Had it been any other teacher, he would’ve leapt to my defence. Not this time. Not Miss Ameen.

At the end of the lesson, I made a desperate attempt to apologise and, to my surprise, she had almost forgotten the incident. Her face, now light-pink, beamed and it was she who apologised profusely for over-reacting. Naturally, I insisted that it was my error of judgement, as I struggled to swallow this tumour of a lump in my throat.

As well as teaching Maths, she was in charge of overseeing afternoon prayers. After lunchtime and before registration for the 5th and 6th lessons, about seventy-plus kids flocked to the prayer room and stood in rows before The Almighty. I was occasionally asked to be the one who recited the call to prayer, Athan. It was difficult to control the large number of sweaty and restless students, so I tried to quieten them with my melodic bellowing. Sometimes it wasn’t enough so I followed up the first “Allahu Akbar!” with a silencing “INCHABOO!” (Slang Iraqi for “Shut up”) It worked, and Miss Ameen cast an approving smile over my ingenuity.

For a variety of reasons, History was one of my favourite lessons. It was chaotic, almost riotous, and was never short of laughs. Most importantly, it was an opportunity to have a stab at non-fiction writing, no matter how bleak it seemed at times. The lesson was unstable throughout, though, and by the time I sat my History GCSE exam at the end of year 11, we had been taught the subject by three different teachers, though our lack of behaviour didn’t have much to do with this.

At the beginning of year 10, Miss Rizvi, the year’s assigned History teacher, was on maternity leave and was deputised by the IT teacher, a sinister mixture of ostensible sleaze and cockiness. Thankfully, the winds of motherhood waned halfway through the year and she returned to resume her role, ending a whole term of inaccurate note-taking from a teacher who was more USB than USSR, if you know what I mean.

When she got back, she had known all of her students except for me. As was the case in other lessons, it was blindingly-clear that a select few got special treatment in and out of the classroom. I wasn’t one of them. In History, this meant better essay-marking and a sweeter-than-usual manner of address. Feeling somehow robbed of my divine right to attention, I was perhaps more self-assured than I should have been. Ali and I often copied eachother’s work and made use of the seats vacated by our classmates who had chosen to study wind patterns and mountains instead of wars and monarchies. Miss Rizvi made no secret of her dismay of our (his, mostly) disruptive behaviour, but we knew that she was secretly entertained: no teacher likes a straight-A-no-cheek kind of student, not that we were anything spectacular academically.

Many would argue that the highlight of Year 10 was our English teacher. A fresh graduate; young, articulate and impeccably dressed – she was nothing short of a celebrity to our chaste eyes. My most vivid memories of her lessons are those where we read –salivated over, rather- poems such as Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress and John Donne’s The Flea. A bunch of over-hormonal 14 year-old boys being asked to dissect a text soaked in sexual imagery was bound to trigger some sniggers and the resulting immaturity is easily imaginable, and excusable. I owe her a great deal for recognising my keenness for words and urging me to pursue it. In the light-green booklet that was my end-of-year report, she noted that I was promising and “gave the lesson 110%”, a compliment I will forever cherish. One of the other Mehdis, however, got a less complimentary report, prompting him to confront her briefly after school and say "Miss, I'll tell you one thing: You're dread!"

I was overjoyed with my report, but what I wanted more than anything was for her to reiterate her high opinion of moi at my hour of reckoning - Parents' Evening. As anyone who's ever been to school knows, Parents' Evening swings parental pendulums one way or the other; you're either God's gift or an utter waste of a child. Having worked my school socks off to impress at least one teacher, I was banking on the prospect of getting a glowing review of my performances in English. My elder sister turned up and made her way to the assembly hall whilst I lurked around the school gates and sneaked a peek every now and then in hope of catching a glimpse of something.. anything. Parents formed queues in front of their children's teachers and waited for their turn. The IT teacher had the least number of parents wanting to speak to him; a small crowd of mothers jostled for a place in the queue to see Miss Kazmi and Miss Ghania, the Bio/Chem and French teachers, respectively: the former’s reputation amongst parents was one that was built on endless requests for after-school detentions, whereas the latter had been simply known for teaching the most moaned-about subject; the longest queue of all, unsurprisingly, was comprised of middle-aged, belly-over-the-belt, balding Iraqi men who giggled and telepathically high-fived eachother whilst preparing to speak to the gathering’s star attraction. I wouldn't have been surprised if some of them didn't even know what she taught. Despite that, a throng of fathers seemed suddenly compelled to discuss their children’s literary progress. Tragically, this meant my sister wasn’t able to speak to her because she deemed it dangerous to stand in the midst of a torrent of testosterone, and so, to this day, my much-lauded repertoire lacks verbal confirmation from the horse’s –mare’s, in this instance- mouth.

Towards the end of the year, rumour had it that she had got engaged and that she wasn’t going to teach us in year 11. Though my classmates and I would never admit it, we were left heartbroken; angry, even: She somehow rendered all of the year’s assignments meaningless and she got engaged. But we managed to forgive her and wish her a happy and successful post-Khoei life. I secretly (not anymore, I guess) hope that one day I bump into her so that I’m able to thank her in person for her encouragement.

At that point, I was almost 15 and I have a vague memory of my being eager to learn everything about everything. The limits of human ability hadn’t yet dawned on me and I thought I could be super good at football, skate-boarding, writing, studying, etc. I distinctly recall, though, that I was developing a real passion for all forms of counter-culture. Perhaps this was spurred by my (very late) discovery of Sylvia Plath, the Obituaries page and rock music, the latter being achieved through MTV Sports: Skateboarding, a videogame I played during the summer of 2000. The game’s soundtrack included bands such as System Of A Down, Cypress Hill and Deftones. I was entranced. I now know that the effect this revelation had on me could have only been so at that age; Sugar and Rock Superstar are awesome songs, but at the time they felt life-changing. One of my elder brothers deserves, contrary to popular opinion, I would imagine, special thanks for facilitating my musical –ideological, even- acculturation. “Pearl Jam is what people ought to listen to..” he declared “Cobain only got big because he jumped ship.” a sentiment Mickey Rourke echoed brilliantly, nearly a decade later, in The Wrestler. At a time when Justin Timberlake danced his way to the top of the charts, my unorthodox musical interests earned me extra kudos amongst my friends, though one of them claimed many years later that he had in fact been very rock'n'roll prior to my introducing the genre to the class.

Generally, my performance in year 10 was average. I didn’t feel the need to push myself as I had the previous year, and I was happy with the pace of my progress. I got on well with all my teachers, especially the Iraqi ones with whom Ali and I enjoyed myriad discussions. Sadly, he had announced that he would be leaving the school and going to Iran at the end of the year. At the same time, Iraq had taken international centre stage, and Saddam’s fall signalled a new life ahead for most people I knew.

To be continued..

School Daze - Part 3

Apologies for the long hiatus coupled with an oath to abolish my sporadic occultations from the blogsphere. The third part of my schooling memoirs has been in the pipeline for a while and the fourth, unfinished though it may be, will go to print once my pile of essays are out of the way.

**

We arrived in London a week into the new school year. I had recently turned 13 and was very much unsure as to how I felt; on the one hand I terribly missed my school friends from Syria, and on the other I was quite apprehensive about meeting the people –friends, relatives and otherwise– whom I hadn't seen in seven years, and of whom I was inexplicably yet deeply sceptical. Most worrying for me, though, was that news of my class-topping performances at school in Syria had crossed continents and reached my relatives in London, so I had to live up to a relatively hyped-up expectation. My having to catch up on my command of the language to be as academically competent as my contemporaries was a nightmare; not only did I face the impossible task of making friends whilst still a 'freshie', but I also had to make sure I didn't seem to be making too much of an effort in trying to grasp the language, accent and overall culture so as to stay cool and slowly blend into the background, as far away as possible from what I naively and insecurely thought were the disdainful eyes of relatives, friends, neighbours, etc.

My former school in London had refused to let me join a couple of weeks into the new school year, or so it was claimed; so after much discussion and driving around the catchment area I was registered at the local comprehensive. Prior to finalising the admission process, I had to sit exams that were to determine the level at which I were to study. I was tested in basic maths, science and (very basic) English. I passed all three tests and was lucky in being sent to the advanced classes of maths and science. English, however, I studied at the third out of four tiers. I later discovered that this form of labelling systematically dumbs down students and implicitly maintains a certain socioeconomic hierarchy which most people seem completely oblivious to. In any case, all of this is just the little pretentious sociologist in me making grand assumptions; in reality, it's just a way of sieveing the Cristiano Ronaldos from the Jonathan Greenings.

Year 9 was great: Miss Fernandes, my form tutor, was instrumental in encouraging me to read more widely and practice my reading and writing skills tirelessly. Much to my delight, a few months later, I was promoted to the second level of English. The school had large numbers of Afro-Caribbean students and so I was exposed to, what was to me at the time, an entirely novel culture. Between lunchtime and the following lesson, my female classmates would play the latest R’n’B hits really loudly and dance quite.. passionately? provocatively? I still can’t make up my mind. Meanwhile, I was happy being the startled 13 year-old Arab Muslim! Despite numerous attempts to lure me to the carpeted dance-floor, my conservative upbringing was an adequate deterrent. Unsurprisingly, I very rarely felt bad about getting out of bed in the morning to go to school; I was expanding my circle of friends quickly and was making good academic progress. I genuinely believed, for a brief while at least, that I was living the educational dream of every student around the world: mixed classrooms, long breaks, funky school diaries and, most importantly, any practices involving the asaya were unheard of!

There were a few Iraqis whom I felt –quite naturally, I suppose– compelled to befriend and hang out with. They weren’t always pleasant company but it was either them or an army of Somalis or Jamaicans amongst whom I stood out like a sore thumb. It’s worth mentioning that there was an Iraqi girl in my class who, at the time, seemed like the cutest thing God had ever bestowed this earth with. I even unearthed a brief diary entry where I proclaimed that God had "blessed mankind" with her "divine beauty." I was infatuated. We were amiable towards eachother but never too friendly; our longest conversation was during a cookery class and involved me explaining the importance of saying 'Bismillah' before pouring boiling water into the sink, lest the resident jinni strikes back – charming or what! To make things worse, I was later joined at the school by a distant relative who figured out that I had my eyes on someone. Ever the helpful one, he was intent on making her take notice of me so he sat in front of her one day and said “What are you looking at? Do you want me to pop your eyes out?” She was bemused and clearly frightened. Understandably, she began avoiding me and her brother gave me a piece of his mind.

I quietly gave up but still flustered whenever I saw her or spoke to her. The moment of truth came at the very last day of school when one of my friends, in the precise moment for which the phrase 'uncalled for' was devised, inadvertently let slip that I liked her by saying her name quite loudly. The girls were gathered around one table and the boys sat around another one, with each group discussing suspected or potential romantic partnerships. When she turned around and asked why her name had been mentioned, he chuckled and said “I was just saying how you two should hook up!” I had never felt my face turn so red so quickly in my life; my head was thumping and I felt a tsunami of blood in my ears. I simply mumbled in denial though I had done nothing wrong. That was the last I saw or heard of her.

The school wasn't academically ideal by any means; so during the summer break, and after some persuasion by a caring cousin, I waged a campaign to change schools and move back to my old academic stomping ground at Al-Khoei, where I had studied nearly a decade earlier. Another entrance exam was taken and despite my failing the head-teacher's age-old trick question (“An electric train is travelling southwards, which way does the smoke go?”) I was admitted into the school. Later, it transpired that I had been treated with a certain degree of nepotism and that, ideally, I would’ve had to sit written numeracy and literacy exams prior to my admission. Needless to say, this revelation didn’t go down too well with my new classmates – what the heck? It’s only school, right?

As was the case in previous years, the night before the first day of year 10 was spent making promises to myself and vowing to be the best of the best. The following day, I was late to what was to soon become the most tedious and mind-numbing of affairs: the morning assembly. It was definitely a far cry from the near-militaristic morning line-up that I was used to in Syria. There, we stood in long queues made up of pairs and had to neatly march back to our classrooms, or else.. Oddly, I think I preferred the latter as it was slightly more interesting to take part in.

My new classroom was full of familiar faces, except for a few who had either put on quite a bit of weight over the years or had had a faint moustache, or in one case, both. I smiled to those who smiled at me and made every effort not to say or do anything that would draw attention to myself.. until I laughed. I cannot recall exactly what had happened but it was something mildly humorous and I couldn't but laugh in a way that made some faces turn towards me. That was the first time I took notice of my laugh and people have since described it with an array of adjectives; menacing, inviting, insincere.. the list goes on. A few days later, I was dubbed 'giggler.’ Not a bad nickname to be given I thought! What I found slightly surprising was that some of the people had simply grown up and that the class had remained fairly unchanged; personalities, playground politics and even football skills were remarkably similar to my memory of the 93/94 class.

Perhaps the coolest thing was the fact that I was one of four Mehdis in my class. Thankfully, all four of us got on quite well with eachother despite our varying levels of academic achievement and footballing technique, though the two sets of statistics hardly ever correlated. One of the Mehdis, MS, I sat next to during our chemistry and biology classes in the lab. We would spend the entire lesson talking about TV adverts, laughing hysterically at eachother’s impressions of them, particularly the Fiat advert that introduced me to Human League. We laughed endlessly and our fun was only made more durable when our teacher, the strangely-loveable Miss Kazmi, snapped at us and sent either one –or both of us on a good day– out of the lesson.

To be continued..

you

As I stagger through this laborious life, I draw strength from your infinite presence.

When your sun shines over this hill, my wilted will breathes new life and urges me to bloom.

Even as inmates in illness, you have rid me of my ball and chain.

You have been my friend and thus, in my heart at least, a debt for your friendship shall forever remain.

When the bend beckons and the fear ensues, your unwavering vision holds me through.

The sight of yet another hurdle is often Daunting. Tonight it isn't.. thanks to you.

Call Off The Search

Under the sun, everything is the same.
My feelings and thoughts are the same.
My utterances are the same.

And though I pretend to have a tame, yielding heart,
The impending revolt is my biggest and most anticipated nightmare.
Truth becomes visible against the imposing blackness.
Life, and death, are quite different at night.

Alone, the world is newer and the air is sharper.
The darkness is only feared by those who haven't made amends.
My only worry is leaving before knowing.
The bend on the road beckons but I'm not ready.

Around the bend is the face I see when it's time to sleep.
And the quiet, devious voice that wants me to give up.
"You'll never find light, but you'll always lose yourself.
Be wise and call off the search."

I consider my options and think carefully,
Only to be disturbed by a loud noise.

SLAM!

Someone just left.

Come Away With Me

Norah Jones, as you will agree, is a beautiful and inspired musician. However, I feel she's unfairly overlooked whenever a book on love is being written. I mean, you're bound to be moved from the core when your eardrums are caressed this way.

Admittedly, the first attempt at writing this post resulted in my branding the 21st century a 'sham' and modern mannerisms thoroughly shallow.

Yes. I'm feeling rather annoyed by the craze that is Valentine's Day. Don't worry though, for I won't spoil the occasion for anyone. So go on; send her that text message with kisses at the end; call the restaurant to confirm the reservation for dinner; double-check that the present is neatly-wrapped and safely tucked somewhere only God and you know of.

Now that you've ticked all the boxes, give yourself a pat on the back and look forward to an evening of unadulterated and infinitely-satisfying love.

Once the whole thing is over, perhaps you'd be remotely interested in my very own take on this rather important issue; one which I had, until fairly recently, a single-minded attitude towards and an unwavering belief in.

Love, or what we think of as 'love', isn't merely a chemical or neuropsychological response triggered in Male by the sight of Curvy, Well-spoken Brunette Female. It’s addiction, obsession, near-worship and an exponential desire (need - let’s be frank!) to spend every second of your day with the person whom, over time, becomes a beacon to your soul.

What a load of dreamy-eyed nonsense, right?

Right.

Love is all those emo-inspired stuff rolled into one big lump that's shoved down your throat everyday. This sadomasochistic dimension to love appeals to quite a lot of people, though, and it’s no surprise to be honest. If it’s the price I’d have to pay to wake up every morning next to Curvy, Well-spoken Brunette -none but her- sign me up and hold my lungs as deposit.

I write about this subject with no reservation whatsoever, because I feel it’s unrefined -unbecoming, even- if I did otherwise. Love, marriage (Relationships - if you want to be ‘modern’) are pivotal stages in anyone’s personal, familial and social development. It's a wildenress that we're bound to sleep-walk into at some point in our lives. Wilderness it really is. Beautiful, magical, unpredictable but thoroughly and endlessly life-changing.

What attracts me to her, though? Why her and no-one else?

Despite years of evolutionary education attributing it to the animal in me wanting to prey on fertile females, I'm unconvinced. Not good enough, I'm afraid. Whilst procreation is quite important to us all, I highly doubt it being the starting point of a relationship.

I won't even bother with the biological aspect: I wouldn't love a woman because she has particular anatomical features. I know many will laugh at this and think I'm lying, but I really am not.

In an attempt to explain why I'm attracted to Curvy, Well-spoken Brunette Female X but not Curvy, Well-spoken Brunette Female Y, scientists claimed that my radars (and yours, so stop sneering) are programmed so as to detect only those who are as attractive as we are (though if you see someone who looks better than you, don't give up!) That's why, sometimes, you notice that a couple look like eachother in quite a few ways. Tom Cruise and his utterly gorgeous wife are a case in point. Prince Charles and Diana Spencer aren't.

Whatever. This isn't anything profound or particularly interesting today. I know.

Though many have dismissed Valentine's Day as the brainchild of some marketing genius, I feel it's an opportunity for ordinary people to celebrate their partners and spouses. All year you're made to look at Jay-Z and David Beckham making all sorts of romantic gestures that cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. Today, however, a little card with a nice message inside will mean more to her than a diamond-encrusted ring because it's a token of your enduring love!

Well, maybe not a diamond-encrusted ring, but you get the picture.

To those celebrating today with someone, have a good time and I wish you a lifetime of love and happiness.

To those waiting to love or be loved, don't give up. I hope this post encouraged you to plough on and keep looking..

Another Step

It's hard to describe the immense feeling of satisfaction when you work your socks off for something and live long enough to see the fruits of your hard work. The past week has been a massive leap for me, personally and professionally. I was so pleased with myself that I took my family out for dinner and bought myself a digital camera as a treat for what I think was a remarkable piece of work!

Perhaps I shouldn't make this sound too grand lest I disappoint the readers with what may seem rather normal. In the run-up to the Iraqi provincial elections, I conducted a number of telephone interviews and tanscribed them. Their publication on BBCArabic's front page meant the world to me, especially given that this was my very first attempt at compiling a piece of meaningful journalistic weight.

Whilst recent hiccups of the heart have blighted my ever-idyllic view of the world, this proved an invaluable boost; one that will, hopefully, be an incentive to be equally diligent in other aspects of my life.

The pouty-lipped, full-cheeked Suhair Al Qaisi better watch this space. If, in a few years time, you notice that Min Al Iraq ("From Iraq" is a weekly program on Al-Arabiya TV that discusses the latest political happenings in Iraq) is presented by a slender dude with a sweet tooth for lady-guests, make sure you come here to congratulate me.

Many thanks go Touta's and Abbas's way for assisting me in getting the names and numbers needed for the piece. You guys are great!

Sasuki's Size 10 Farewell

Much has been made of Sasuki's personal and professional past in order to understand what had driven him to deviate from the norm of smiling and nodding to war criminals - as if psychoanalysis was really going to decipher the behaviour of anyone living in today's Iraq.

His picture will be splashed across newspapers throughout the world; His name will be endlessly repeated, but no statue will be erected in honour of his heroics, and he will soon be forgotten. Despite all that, Muntathar Zaidi's ten seconds of unforseen madness and/or commendable courage generated mixed reactions that seem to reflect Iraqi popular opinion. The majority's response has been full of admiration and verbal back-slapping, with a considerable minority denouncing his behaviour as erratic and unhelpful given the delicately-poised situation that Iraq is in. Irrespective of my opinion of his employers, Baghdadiya TV, I salute him and pray that he and his family face no repercussions. Some cynics will argue that Iraqis should've been hurling shoes decades earlier; perhaps, but the unspeakable terror of Saddam's thirty-five years of tyranny is simply unfathomable to our Burma-inspired and fashionably-democratic mentalities. Millions were killed in broad daylight whilst the international community stared indifferently. Hopefully, this will be the first of many acts of documented defiance.

In any case, feel free to watch the footage again... and again.. and again.

Target: Incumbent U.S president, George W. Bush.

Object: Size 10 black shoe.

Thrower: Muntathar Zaidi, on behalf of 9 out of 10 people in the world.