Teaching Under Occupation

I mean really, how the hell am I supposed to teach like this? I gave this bullshit speech in class today, our last class of the semester, and I believed it until now:

"No matter what your grade, you became better. You are better writers, better readers, better students. You are better, and that is success. Your points do not reflect that, so even if you think you have failed, please remember that you did improve and THAT is the success that counts."

Bullshit. I really feel right now that it's all bullshit. Maybe I can say those words in another world. But their points do matter, and those kids deserve more from us. And in the end, is there really any way to succeed here, points or none? Why do we have a system that defeats them? Is it not enough that we have a country, an occupier, a world that defeats them?

****

After class and I'm in my office. Students come. Some need papers they didn't pick up. Some have a question. Many wait. After a few, I walk out to grab some tea. I see one. I smile broadly, "Ahlan!" (Welcome) I usher him into my office. I'll get the tea later.

He looks at me with an exhausted face, smiling barely, his eyes framed by huge bags of fatigue. "What happened to you?" I say as I bend down to rummage through stacks of papers to return him his. "Didn't want to come to class, so you slept in?" He reaches into his pocket and produces a paper. I immediately assume it's a doctor's note. About to give him hell for being absent too many days and how that note is not going to help him pass, my eye catches the Hebrew in between lines of Arabic. I look up and stare into his face. His exhaustion is more obvious by the second.

He opens his mouth, "The Israelis had me." I nod like I understand but inside I'm on fire, "AGAIN?! HOW MANY OF MY STUDENTS ARE THE ISRAELIS GOING TO FUCKING TAKE?!" I invite him to sit, pushing a chair towards him. I immediately launch into a list of how we can catch him up, but my eyes catch his and I shut up.

"Are you okay?" and I touch his arm. "Really, are you okay?"

He nods, unconvincingly, "Yea, it's all good."

I laugh, a tortured laugh, because it's not. It's really not all good. "Listen," I tell him, "We need to talk. Not today. You need to relax and sleep first. Can you see me Saturday?" He nods. "Did you turn in your essay? Yes, right? You only missed one class, or was it two?"

"No, I missed three."

"How long did they have you?"

"They make me come everyday. I'll tell you the story another time."

"Bring the essay to me when you are ready. I don't want rushed and crappy. Do your best. If that takes time, it takes time. Bring it when you can."

He nods again.

"Saturday then?"

He nods and leaves.

Now it's my turn to nod. I begin to cry. It is a luxury I am not able to indulge. A former student walks by, sees me and smiles--tears in her eyes. I invite her to sit with me. We talk and I see that today someone has broken another piece of her, and I know really it's all bullshit. There is no success here. No possibility for success. If the Israelis don't have them, the Palestinians have them. If the Palestinians don't have them, the families, teachers, anyone else who can is beating them down--and I'm right there kicking.