Lear

Nawaal, the headteacher, leads me out of the glaring sunlight and into the classroom. My eyes adjusting to the relative gloom, I find myself faced with a dozen boys barely younger than me, comfortable, curious, and amused.

Minutes before, I and the Brighton Tubas delegation were being shown around the new school of Al Jiflik, a large village spread across one of the many beautiful valleys of the West Bank. It was my first day in occupied Palestine. Before thinking, I pressed my services on Nawaal, suggesting that my native tongue could be of great value in her English lesson. It is for this reason that I was soon politely shoved into the dark but comfortable classroom, and sat upon a traditional wooden schoolchair in a class of eighteen-year-olds.

The maths class is in mid-flow. My entrance shatters the atmosphere of learning, and I notice the presence of another dozen young people, girls, whispering and giggling at the back. Accepting the disruption, the maths teacher – who is young and hard, but not unkind – continues. As he chalks up familiar-looking algebra, the girls behind me interject constantly with suggestions, and guided by their words, formulae form across the far wall. It is perhaps ten o’clock. Giggling and sidelong glances continue, but out of deference to the teacher, I politely pretend to find great interest in long division.

Maths class over, I wait silently as Nawaal introduces me to the class. The lesson today, she continues, is on King Lear. (Thankfully, this is one of the few plays by the Bard that I’ve actually read.) She suggests I run through the plot, and accepting the offered piece of chalk, I take the stage.

King Lear, I discover, is a political play. As we work through the plot together, the young adults and I portray an historical tale of struggle, greed, and death. On the board, their suggestions take shape: the unwise king, the cruel daughters who take up his crown, the honest girl who pays the price for her truthfulness. Britain is divided, and it seems the King of France will have to declare war in order to restore peace… In the end, everyone dies. I draw the masks of ‘comedy’ and ‘tragedy’ of the board, and remind the class that this is the latter. The Duke of Albany, one of the few survivors, inherits the country. I write THE END on the board, but the class is sceptical. Nawal reminds me that Albany, like others, was cruel when it came to the crunch. I add a question mark to my conclusion, and it seems to satisfy the class: THE END?

I fail to notice the teachers’ strike has started during the class. The teachers here have not been paid for a year, and the direct action has been planned for some time, but the immersion of the lesson makes me forget such things. The pupils, I am pleased to say, do not make a fuss, but stay for the whole lesson, and then for another half hour to ask me questions. Later, I will realise this, and feel flattered. For now, I respond to their questions.

Mostly they want to know where I am from, why I am here, what school is like in Britain. I tell them about the delegation, and about how we start school and four or five, and the weather. One girl asks me whether I had to go through a checkpoint to get here. I confirm this, and tell her what the soldier told me: ‘Welcome to Israel.’ The news sends a ripple of whispered conversation around the class, translating my words, confirming them, arguing in hushed tones. Finally one girl speaks up. She says, as though there must be some mistake, ‘But this is Palestine’. I do not know what to say.