Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  In my small-town, comfortably quiet existence, I collided with the rapacious beast of terrorism and it dragged me into its nest of deceit, violence and death. In the depth of this morass, I, a fledging “woman of letters” as one prof liked to call me in college, learned too much about the world, a lot about myself, and even a little about love.

  Chapter 2

  Baku Valley, Afganistan

  The lean teenager stood outside the small hut, scratching at the soil with the toe of one worn sandal and shivering in his thin abaya, two scrawny arms slashing back and forth across his body. Unleashed from the shadowy valley below, the wind rushed around him and screamed a warning at him to flee. Rashid knew, once his trembling hand knocked on the door and he stepped through the dark portal, the decision was out of his hands.

  He was terrified of what lay ahead, though he would never admit it. He had no idea of the particulars of the assignment, but he had been told how it must end. They had drilled that particular lesson often enough during his training. It could end only in his “glorious martyrdom.”

  A small, insistent voice inside him whispered, “But you are only sixteen. You haven’t yet begun to live.”

  Immediately he cursed himself for his weakness, for allowing Satan to tempt him with any thought of quitting. Besides, the elders had made it clear that once in, quitting was never an option. Like many of his age, he had joined the training in the Baku Valley not out of any particular religious fervor, but because he was hungry. Not hungry for the truth, but hungry for bread ... or anything else to eat. His mother and his sister had been so poor that he remembered being famished almost all the time. Before joining Al Quaida, his most prevalent memory had been an aching belly, as if some tapeworm gnawed constantly at his insides, unrelenting for days on end.

  As a child, the earliest lessons he could remember were those of trickery, deceit, and, when necessary, escape. He couldn’t remember ever having enough to eat until he joined “the favored ones.” In the two years since signing his pledge, they had filled his stomach, developed his body and honed his mind. In his lessons, between the morsels of precious food, he had learned that the hedonistic culture of the West was the cause of his people’s suffering. Then, when he finally began to grasp the meaning of the great Jihad, they had altered his training. Much to his surprise, he was then taught English, the language of the infidels, and found he could pick it up quickly.

  Now he was about to find out how he would serve Allah. So he “screwed up his courage”--he remembered learning that phrase in his English class and thought it amazingly appropriate now--and raised his hand to knock on the weathered door.

  “Come in.”

  He was startled to hear a hoarse voice bark out in English and his hand jumped to the pitted metal handle. He tugged at the door but it wouldn’t move. He strained but the warped boards refused to budge. For a moment Rashid was struck by the thought that Allah was conspiring with the screaming wind and the aged wooden door to warn him to stay out, to run away, to save himself. Then, abruptly, the door jerked free and almost rammed into his face. Reacting quickly, he dodged it and propelled his body though the opening, stumbling into the gloomy interior.

  “Rashid, my young soldier, how are you?” the voice continued in English, oozing personal concern. As his eyes adjusted to the near darkness, Rashid was able to discern two flickering candles on the far side of the room. In the shadows cast by the licking flames he could barely distinguish the shapes of three figures. His pupils slowly dilating, he realized one of the men was Abu Zarif, his teacher, but the other two were little more than outlines. They were both tall men who towered over the short, fat teacher he had learned from over the past two years. Rashid could make out enough to see that both had lanky figures with long flowing beards and prominent ears, but the weak candlelight washed out the details, giving both almost featureless faces. They stood like stretched silhouettes, their faces little more than dark masks.

  “Abu Zarif tells us that you are becoming a soldier of Allah and already are one of his star pupils, that you have learned your lessons from the Koran almost as well as your lessons in English.” The voice seemed to emanate from the figure on the left, but Rashid could not see the lips move in the semidarkness.

  Peering from one shadowy face to the next, Rashid stammered, “I-I-I have tried to learn what I can,” uncertain of what was expected.

  “Nonsense!” the voice from the other end of the room boomed. “What does the Koran teach us about false modesty?”

  “That it is no less a sin than bragging,” Rashid quickly answered, “but—“

  “Don’t be afraid, my boy,” Abu Zarif said, laughing and stepping forward, placing a fleshy, discolored hand on the teen’s arm. Rashid could detect the telltale, sweet smell of the pipe Zarif smoked incessantly in class. “I have already told them how hard you have worked on your studies and how you have excelled. In fact, I have told them that you are by far d’best student in my entire group.”

  “I do what I can to serve Allah and use what gifts the Great One has given me,” Rashid responded, finally finding his voice. “But, holy one, you addressed me as soldier. Surely, my teacher has told you that many other students surpass me in many lessons needed for the great Jihad.”

  “Allah has a plan for each of us, don’t you agree?” the same voice asked quietly now.

  “Yes, of course, you are right.”

  “We have sat in the mosque and prayed, and we believe Allah has revealed that your time has come, young one,” the voice continued.

  The voice’s English was almost completely unaccented, as if it belonged to a CNN reporter, Rashid mused and then was terrified as he realized he was missing part of what was being spoken.

  “... not your concern. Now come sit down so we can discuss the details of your assignment anointed by Allah,” the voice said.

  Rashid quickly sat on the hard, dirt floor and crossed his legs. The speaker did the same across the room, though when “the voice” settled himself, he managed to remain in the shadows, still only a silhouette to the teenager’s eyes.

  “Others will teach you the details, that is not my concern. I decided to come personally to meet you. I can tell Abu has chosen well,” the speaker’s darkened face turned toward the teacher, who beamed back. “Now that I have met you and can feel the faith flowing through you, I am certain Allah will bless you with success. Let me tell you this much. After you complete your training, which your teachers tell me will be soon, we wish to send you to America.” Noting Rashid’s surprise, he went on, “Yes, you will go to the land of the infidels because that is where you can best serve Allah and the great Jihad. But I do not wish to deceive you. I also came here to share with you that this assignment is quite dangerous. Although your death is not certain, it is possible that you might be asked to give your young life in this effort. Do you believe you could do that?”

  “My life belongs to Allah and if he wills that I must die, then I will gladly surrender my life,” Rashid answered quickly as he had been taught and struggled to keep any doubt out of his tone.

  “I am glad to hear the conviction in your voice,” the speaker said. “It is critical that you not be seduced by the Great Satan. Because of their opulence and greed, Americans have it much easier than the faithful here. They have gone soft. The Westerners are a people who have no morals and are corrupting the world Allah has given us.”

  Rashid felt, but couldn’t see, the penetrating stare of the two black eyes boring into him and tried to sit up straighter.

  “Rashid, you would not be the first believer who succumbed to the temptations of the West. If we send you into the underbelly of the beast, we need to know that you will not be seduced.”

  “Whatever you ask, I will do,” Rashid answered. “I will not disappoint you. I will carry out Allah’s will.”

  “Good. Good. I was confident your teachers had chosen well.” The silhouetted face glanced at the ground, one long finger drawing an imaginary
figure on the ground. “When you begin to have those doubts--” a shadowy hand came up to silence Rashid’s attempted objections, “and you will have doubts: after all, we are all only human.” The speaker paused, turned his shadowy face toward Rashid and continued in a measured monotone, “Remember that we have your family with us and will ... take care of them.”

  The hair on the back of his neck stiffened and Rashid swallowed once. But--even at his young age--he had learned enough not to voice these thoughts. Unable to speak, he merely nodded.

  “For them as well as for Allah,” the speaker continued, “it is necessary that you do not fail in your mission. Do you understand?”

  Rashid nodded in stunned obedience. Then the wind screamed again, rattling the shuttered windows like some wild animal trying to claw its way into the room through the slats. Struggling to contain his terror, he nodded again and said, “Honored Sheik, I understand. I will not fail.”

  “I know you will not.” The speaker’s voice took on a paternal tone. “Your teachers will train you in all the details, but I will tell you this much. You will travel to America and enroll in a high school in a part of their country called Ohio.”

  Rashid had no idea where such a place was.

  As if reading the boy’s thoughts, the speaker said, “This is an area in the interior of the country with small towns far from any of the major cities. While in Ohio, you will do there what you have done here -- become an excellent student. You will study hard and wait.”

  “That is all you want me to do? Study?” asked Rashid.

  “Of course you will do more when the time comes,” answered the speaker curtly. “As I said, you may even have the chance to achieve martyrdom in the Jihad. From your teachers you will learn the specifics of the important role Allah has planned for you.”

  The tall figure stood up and moved toward the door, seeming to Rashid to almost float across the ground. Rashid scrambled to his feet. The speaker’s voice changed, this time again becoming paternal. “But if you are soon to face death, then we need to show you some of the fruits of reward that Allah has bestowed on all faithful. First we will provide you with a glimpse of the glory that awaits those who die in His service.” His bony finger gestured to the third figure in the small space. “Later Hassan will direct you to the Cavern of Near Paradise for your indulgence. Then you will pay a farewell visit to your family. Go with the blessing of Allah.”

  The other two men emerged from the shadows and the three strode quickly past Rashid and pushed open the door. After a moment Rashid followed, stumbling out into the howling wind.

  Chapter 3

  I know what you’re thinking; this is a strange tale for a teacher to tell. It certainly seems odd to me in the telling. I signed on to this job to open up students’ minds to the best ideas of the best writers, and maybe help them discover something about themselves as well. The only things I expected to protect students from were the occasional dangling modifier and a classroom bully. Certainly not gun-toting terrorists.

  It’s been months since it ended, and even as my fingers hover over the keys and my memory replays every scene, I still can’t keep from trembling.

  On one level I really don’t want to write this down, don’t want to revisit even one horrifying moment. I’ve read the words others have used to describe their experiences in terrorist strikes--traumatic, harrowing, frightening, life-altering. These descriptors were all true but not nearly enough. Surviving this experience has consumed me. But I’ve decided that I really have no choice: I have to write this.

  Oh, by the way, I’m a high school English teacher. To be more precise, or to “use better language” as I preach incessantly, I teach 11th and 12th grade English and journalism. My students would tell you I’m always after them to “write it down,” to put their thoughts on paper. Actually they would call it “nagging,” but I prefer to think of my exhortations as vigorous encouragement.

  “That’s the only way a writer can lay his thoughts bare for examination,” I repeatedly urge my students. “In this fleeting world of impermanence, of deleted voice mails and erasable e-mails,” I admonished in a recent lecture, “we are losing the records of the evolving thoughts of people, great and small. Thoughts captured in the papers such as the original drafts of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address and Martin Luther King’s ‘Letters from A Birmingham Jail.’ Or even the simple letters with the anguished handwriting of the homesick soldiers from the Iraq War.”

  And to which my students would say, “Yada, yada, yada.” Frankly, most of the time my “teacher words” fall on deaf ears. After all, these are teenagers we’re talking about. Every once in a while, there is a glimmer of recognition, a ray of hope that my inspiration is taking root. But, to be honest, most of the time I only see the glazed eyes of teenage boredom staring back at me. What I wouldn’t give to see a few of those empty stares right now. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  As long as I can remember, I wanted to be a teacher. You could say I’m here because of my dad. When I was born, I became his princess and he decided early on that I would have a better life than the one fate dealt him. He earned his living as a smelter mechanic working twelve-hour shifts for 33 interminable years in the Francis Foundry. Having exhausted himself in a filthy, often thankless job and trying to raise a family of five, he encouraged me, persuaded me, prodded me to get an education so I could have the chance he never had. Because of his vision for me, I was always going to college, no question about it. The teaching part, though, was my choice.

  When I went away to college, I was only too anxious to shake the dust of this town from my shoes, or, rather back then it would have been my sandals. Anyway, I believed I needed to find new horizons, to strike out on my own, so I got a degree in English education with a minor in Mideastern languages of all things. What can I say? I had a great language prof and, as it turned out, a knack for Arabic and Farsi. When I graduated, I got my first teaching job in Cleveland.

  But, in my third year of teaching, my father collapsed -- on the job, of course. When they raced him to the hospital, they found his whole body was riddled with cancer that had started in his pancreas. Typical of him, Dad had never said a word. The disease had progressed so far the doctors didn’t even bother to operate on him. He died two months later.

  You’d think that event alone would have propelled me as far away from home as possible. But, shortly after we interred his body in St. Simon’s Cemetery, I received an “inspiration” that I’d like to think came from my father. I walked in and announced to my stunned mom and my sisters that I wanted to come home to teach. My inspiration convinced me that perhaps my mission--that’s a word I heard a lot from my dad--was to try to help other hometown kids realize that education can give them a chance for a better life.

  I apologize for digressing. Maybe I stray because I fear what is to come and want to stave it off for as long as I can. I am only 29, certainly not old, but in the past few months have already lived enough of life to realize I need this catharsis. So, I force myself to stare at the monitor until these letters appear, like fanciful black etchings tripping across the white screen.

  This story, or at least my part of it, begins in the small town of Hammerville. That’s Ohio, the heart of the Midwest. When I returned home, I was fortunate enough to secure the position vacated by Mr. Downs, Dean of the English department and teacher for 32 years.

  I guess the real reason I returned was because I truly loved my hometown, even though for a while I was too stubborn to admit it. Like lots of towns in the Midwest rust belt, 25 years ago Hammerville was humming along as a thriving, even fairly prosperous hamlet with plenty of well-paying jobs. Of course, this was changing as I grew up but I didn’t realize it, or maybe didn’t want to. But when the manufacturing jobs went south -- excuse the pun -- the town’s prosperity took a permanent vacation as well. The factories have long since gone idle and been left to, well, rust. You get the picture. I finally did too, but not until after I took this
job and returned to my hometown.

  And yet here I sat in impoverished Hammerville using cutting-edge technology in a state-of-the-art facility the town named James Thurber High School. How’s that for Americana? (Some of the townsfolk wanted to name it Mark Twain High School, but he’s not an Ohio author. Thurber, of course, is as he grew up not sixty miles from Hammerville.) The building is a beautifully constructed, two-story structure with gleaming metal and glass slicing at sharp, perpendicular angles. It boasts a massive auditorium with a stage full of technological wonders, a cavernous gym to host the largest of crowds, and a stadium with a manicured field most towns like Hammerville can only dream of. (I know, I know I’m not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition.) A fully enhanced distance learning television studio with the latest in technology, in addition to top notch aquatic and fitness centers, place our school’s facilities among the finest in the state. But the school feature the students appreciated most was Thurber Commons, a striking, 80,000 square foot crafted oak and brass deck attached to the cafeteria. In friendly weather students enjoy congregating in the gazebo, on the benches and at the tables that overlook the two thousand acre lake.

  You’re probably asking how a little town like Hammerville with meager resources, on the verge of destitution could ever land a school facility like James Thurber High School. I wish I could say that the townspeople realized that investing in their children was the best way to ensure their future and that of the town, but come on. We’re talking about school funding in a state that holds a record for inadequacy. Just ask our Supreme Court. But that’s another story. Our new school is really where my story begins.

  In 2000, the recession that wouldn’t hit the rest of the nation for a few years was already in full swing in Hammerville. The big automobile plants had closed after the UAW wouldn’t agree to that round of concessions and, within eleven months, the steel mill and other heavy industry shops followed suit. So while “9/11” was only a sick dream in terrorists’ warped minds and the next stock market plunge wasn’t even dreamt of yet, Hammerville was running a full dress rehearsal of the nation’s coming economic woes. There was little remaining industry in town and, without the cash infusion from those jobs, commercial businesses were descending swiftly along the same disastrous path. Years later, onto this field of financially scorched earth marched the polished, briefcase-bearing representatives of Harold Barr Enterprises.