Two Old Fools on a Camel: From Spain to Bahrain and Back Again

by Victoria Twead

  As we digested this, the Three Fat Ladies led the way across the courtyard to the main classroom block. Once through the entrance doors, we saw large portraits of the King and his uncle, the Prime Minister, prominently displayed on notice boards. Straight ahead, a flight of stairs led to the upper floors. To the left, and above a swing door, was written ‘Middle School’. Opposite and above another swing door, ‘High School’. The Kindergarten, Elementary School and Gymnasium were in separate buildings across the street, we were told. In total, the school accommodated more than one and a half thousand children. We were led up the stairs to the first floor and ushered into an auditorium large enough to seat about five hundred in neat rows.

  And then the meetings began.

  Whether in the UK, America or the Middle East, I’m sure school staff meetings are pretty similar. But the meetings we endured that day were lengthy, made twice as long because everything was announced in Arabic and then repeated in English. Brent sat in front of us, on his own, pen and notebook poised.

  “Welcome to ASS, the American Specialist School,” Dr. Cecily said into the microphone. “Where...”

  “ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED!” chanted the veteran teachers, led by the Three Fat Ladies. Joe and I looked at each other. Was this an American thing? None of the staff meetings in England incorporated jingoistic chants. Further along from us, Jake and Colton appeared unconcerned. Must be an American thing I concluded.

  Dr. Cecily spoke at length and then introduced us to Mr. Brewster, the Middle School Principal, who was my boss. My first impressions were favourable. An African American, middle-aged, short, stocky and bespectacled. All the new teachers now had to stand and introduce themselves and I saw Brent’s scribblings go into overdrive. When it was my turn, everybody laughed.

  “Why did they laugh?” I hissed to Joe, as I sat down.

  “Because you said you’re English. Your accent gave that away in your first sentence. We’re the only British here, as far as I can see.”

  Dr. Cecily again claimed the microphone and her face stretched into an unnatural, showbiz-like grin, eyes focused somewhere over our heads.

  “And now, I want y’all to welcome the school’s wonderful, talented, glorious owner, Mrs. Sherazi!” She led the applause, quickly taken up by the other two Fat Ladies and obediently echoed by the rest of us. All eyes turned to the back of the auditorium.

  4. ASS

  ‘Foul (pronounced ‘fule’) Medames’

  Was this the school’s owner? A hunched figure made her way slowly down the central aisle to the front, her eyes never lifting from the smooth parquet floor. I estimated that she was quite possibly an octogenarian, but the many face-lifts had rendered her face immobile, and her eyebrows were arched in permanent surprise. A wig made from impossibly thick, glossy black hair cascaded over her shoulders. When she reached the microphone, she straightened her wig and began to read from her notes. I confess, I was fascinated by her.

  “Welcome to a new year at ASS,” she said.

  “Where ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED,” chanted the auditorium.

  Mrs. Sherazi paused but her expression didn’t change and she didn’t look up. She carried on reading. These sentences were the longest I would ever hear her utter as she normally restricted herself to just a few words at a time.

  “For ten years we were fortunate to have Mr. Denny as the High School Principal. As you know, Mr. Denny had to leave the school because of poor health. I will now introduce the new High School Principal, Miss Daryna, who is from Canada.”

  I watched the other two Fat Ladies nudge each other, directing looks of sympathy at Dr. Cecily. It suddenly dawned on me that Dr. Cecily had expected the appointment, and her hostility to Daryna stemmed from her disappointment in being overlooked. The Fat Ladies’ resentment of Daryna now made sense to me.

  Daryna stood to moderate applause and spoke a few breathless words of thanks into the microphone before returning it to Mrs. Sherazi. I noticed that the Three Fat Ladies did not join in the general applause that concluded Daryna’s speech.

  “Things are going to change here at ASS,” said Mrs. Sherazi.

  “Where ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED,” chanted the auditorium.

  “During the school day, no teacher is allowed outside the premises without a pass. The pass must be signed by either Miss Daryna or Mr. Brewster. This is my school and all teachers will follow my rules.”

  Clearly this was a formidable lady, a fact that would be reinforced in the months to come. We found her to be an astute businesswoman who never agreed to anyone’s request for a salary increase (which often occurred, especially amongst the veteran teachers), no matter what the circumstances. Western teachers at other schools, we were told, earned so much more than those at ASS. (Joe and I were quite satisfied with our conditions and we felt our salaries were fair.)

  However, she could be very forgiving. She rarely terminated a teacher’s contract, even when the teacher was guilty of the most shocking crimes.

  I’ll gloss over the dull parts of the meeting and will report only the parts that made me sit up straighter:

  1) Mrs. Sherazi’s extraordinary wig, which had a tendency to slip forward, requiring constant adjusting.

  2) The fact that there were “a few last-minute problems” with our timetables, or ‘schedules’ as the Americans call them.

  3) That we would definitely be moving to our new apartments in a week or so.

  Eventually, Dr. Cecily wound up the meeting.

  “We sure are looking forward to a productive new school year,” she said, “here at ASS, where...”

  “ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED!” chanted the teachers, Joe and I included.

  Mrs. Sherazi bowed and departed to another round of celebrity applause, and we new teachers were taken to the library for an ‘orientation’ meeting. Chaired again by the daunting Dr. Cecily and assisted by Dawn and Rita, we were instructed on what to do, what never to do, and what to expect in Bahrain. Joe and I sat with our new friends, Colton and Jake, and as each nugget of information was delivered, our eyes met in either amusement or disbelief.

  Ramadan was further explained. We were informed that during daylight hours, Muslims abstain from eating, drinking (including water), smoking and marital sex.

  “So non-marital sex is okay, then?” said Joe.

  I kicked him under the table and Colton and Jake sniggered. Dr. Cecily ignored Joe and continued.

  “Muslims believe that every part of the body must be restrained during Ramadan,” she said. “The tongue is not permitted idle gossip, eyes must not look on anything unseemly, the ears must avoid hearing unsuitable or obscene words and the feet must not lead one astray.”

  “Do all Muslims observe Ramadan?” asked Andrea, a dark-haired, dark-eyed young teacher from Texas.

  “Sick people, travellers, the very young and very old, the mentally impaired and pregnant ladies are exempt,” Dr. Cecily answered.

  “What about our students?” I asked. “Will they be fasting?”

  “Most will be fasting and observing Ramadan,” she said. “Most won’t even bother to come to school until it’s over.”

  “So we teach half-classes to start with?”

  “We sure do.”

  Joe leaned forward. “So what you are saying is that when school starts on Tuesday, hardly any of the kids will turn up?”

  “That’s right. And when Ramadan finishes, the Eid Al-Fitr holiday begins, so there won’t be any school anyway.”

  “And when does Ramadan end?”

  The Three Fat Ladies laughed.

  “That depends on the moon,” explained Rita.

  “And whether you are Sunni or Shi’a.” said Dawn.

  “One percent of the crescent moon has to be visible to the naked eye before Ramadan can end. Or three percent, depending on whether you are Sunni or Shi’a.”

  “Which is just as well, because the schedule isn’t ready,” muttered Dawn.

  This meeting was beginning to get interesting. />
  “Some other things y’all should know,” Dr. Cecily went on. “The Ministry of Education is all-powerful, and the school and staff have to follow their rules or the school will be closed down.”

  Dr. Cecily explained how the Ministry of Education’s rules would affect us and I made a mental list. In England, I was called Schindler because of my love of making lists, but judging by the following, I was in no danger of being given that nickname here in Bahrain.

  1) Israel was completely missing from the curriculum, and must never be mentioned by us. We must act as though it didn’t exist.

  2) The Holocaust must never be referred to, as the government does not recognise that it ever happened. It must be skipped by all History teachers.

  3) School textbooks sometimes had pages glued together to protect students from ‘offensive material’.

  4) In textbooks containing photographs of people dressed scantily, or wearing shorts, expect to find clothes added and coloured in by hand.

  Joe, Jake, Colton and I gaped and exchanged more glances. Was this for real? What were we doing here in this strange place? But there were more surprises:

  5) The older generation are highly respected. (I hoped that would stand Joe and me in good stead in the classroom.)

  6) Bribery is commonplace. Both students and their parents have been known to offer money, goods, even cars, in exchange for higher grades.

  7) Never complain about being kept waiting, it’s very rude.

  8) Boys and girls do not ‘date’. Instead, they go out in groups, chaperoning each other. At discos, girls and boys dance separately, protected from each other by a barrier.

  9) Hand-holding by members of the opposite sex, or any public signs of affection, even between husband and wife, are frowned upon.

  10) However, hand-holding by members of the same gender is perfectly acceptable. Men often walk along holding hands.

  By now, Joe, Jake, Colton and I were listening with our mouths hanging open, but there were even more extraordinary customs to observe:

  11) Never, never show the soles of your feet, as it’s regarded as a terrible insult.

  12) Beware, many Muslims believe that Western ladies are easy because of the way they dress. (Andrea snorted at that one. Joe said, “Do you mean they’re not?” and received another kick from me under the table.)

  13) Never pass anything to anyone using your left hand. The right hand is used for eating and drinking, whilst the left is reserved for bodily hygiene and thus considered unclean.

  14) Never compliment anybody on a possession, as Muslims will feel obliged to give it to you, whatever the value.

  Jake leaned into Joe. “Nice watch,” he said, pointing at Joe’s shiny new timepiece. We’d never bothered with watches in El Hoyo, but felt we needed them now.

  “Thank you, it’s new...” said Joe, then started laughing as Jake opened his palm, ready to accept the gift that Joe was supposed to make.

  “I really like this,” said Colton, fingering Joe’s shirt collar.

  “Okay, y’all,” said Dr. Cecily, frowning at the hilarity at our end of the long table. “Why don’t you go off and take a look round the school and find your own classrooms.” She closed the meeting and we all wandered off.

  “Well, Miss Daryna told me that I’m a floater and I haven’t been given my own classroom,” said Joe. “Makes me feel like something left in a lavatory,” he added under his breath. “Let’s go and find your room in the Middle School.”

  I agreed, picturing my classroom to be similar to the many I’d taught in, back in the UK. How mistaken I was.

  We passed Brent in the corridor, scribbling in his notebook.

  “Hi, Brent,” said Joe. “Have you found your classroom?”

  “Hi. No, I’m a floater,” said Brent, not looking up. He frantically flicked the pages in his notebook. “Excuse me, please, what are your names, please?”

  We passed through the double swing doors into the Middle School. The ground floor housed all the Grade 6 classes, so I knew my classroom would be somewhere here.

  The first room was a small staffroom. A bank of elderly-looking computers lined the walls. In the centre was a large worktable. Every chair was occupied by an Arabic member of staff, all women, all veiled. They were all speaking at once and the noise level was high. I understood not a word and hurriedly backed out.

  The first classroom was large, the walls decorated with maps and bulletin boards. A foam mattress leaned against the back wall.

  “Well!” I said. “This must be the Geography room, but if my classroom is anything like this, I certainly won’t complain. They even provide a bed for naps between lessons!”

  We walked further down the corridor and found my classroom. ‘Miss Vicky Grade 6 ENGLISH’ was signed above the door. It was sandwiched between the Principal’s office and another that housed the school’s computer control system.

  “Well, this is it!” I said to Joe. “This is going to be my home for the next year.” I opened the door and looked in.

  “Oh my...”

  “Oh!” echoed Joe.

  The room was tiny and bleak. At the front stood a ramshackle teacher’s desk with a whiteboard behind. The room had no cupboards, just an ancient bookcase with bowed shelves. The battered students’ desks had already been set out. They were of the ‘combo’ type, with a writing surface fixed to the chair. I counted twenty-two. They were so closely packed that I wondered how the children would reach the ones at the back without having to climb over the ones in front. I could already see that I wouldn’t be able to wander around the classroom to check on pupils’ work. In fact, there wasn’t even space for me to write on the whiteboard, as the front desks nosed up against the wall.

  “There must be some mistake,” I said. “Perhaps they’re just storing extra desks in here.”

  “Well, at least you have a classroom,” said Joe. “At least you’re not a floater, like me. And those two big windows let in lots of light.”

  That was true. The barred windows had no blinds and looked out onto the courtyard.

  “I think you wan’ to cover those windows,” said a voice from the doorway. “You buy paper, you stick it all over windows!”

  Joe and I swung round to see who was speaking...

  5. Friends

  ‘Shish Taouk’

  In the doorway stood a figure, the owner of the voice. She smiled shyly and stepped forward.

  “I’m Hawa,” she said. “I teach Grade 6 Math, an’ my classroom is opposi’ yours. I am the meanest teacher.”

  We smiled at each other, and I sensed a friend and ally. Hawa was petite, graceful and dressed in a beautiful, shimmering turquoise abaya, her hijab decorated with sequins and pearls. In all the time I spent in Bahrain, I never saw her wear the same outfit twice. Joe and I introduced ourselves.

  “The meanest teacher?” I asked.

  “Oh yes!” She giggled, and her pretty oriental eyes shone. “You see! You see!”

  Hawa looked more like a butterfly than the meanest teacher, but I didn’t say so.

  “You say I should cover the windows?” I asked.

  “Yes. When the High School come out for their break, all the kids, they not listen to you, they watch big kids. An’ big kids, they knock on glass and make bad faces. Better you cover the windows with paper.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Joe. “I’d better go and explore the High School. I’ll see you both later.”

  Hawa

  He left, and Hawa and I got to know each other better.

  Hawa was Malaysian and had already worked at ASS for four years. She had settled on the island, her husband worked in Manama, and her children attended the British School. I explained that Joe and I were British, but lived in Spain.

  “You not work in Spain?”

  “No, we were supposed to be retired.”

  “You do nothing?”

  “Er, well, I wrote books.”

  “What the name of your boo
k?”

  “Chickens, Mules...”

  “Chicken? You write abou’ chicken? And mule? Wha’ is mule?”

  I tried to explain, then fired questions at her.

  “Are all the classrooms so small?”

  “Oh yes, on this floor, all small. Except for the Arabic Geography teacher. She has a big, BIG room, and a bed. Sometime she lock room to take a nap.” She clapped her hands and giggled. “You see! You see!”

  “But there’s no space in here!”

  “No space, yes. Every year the same-same.”

  “And where are the books? No paper? No exercise books?”

  “The students, they buy all tha’. Not a’ first, you nee’ to nag them, then they buy later.”

  “And what about our timetables, the schedule?”

  Hawa shrugged. “Schedule not ready.”

  Poor Hawa answered my onslaught of questions as best she could. My heart sank with each reply. This was not what I’d expected at all.

  “How can we prepare our lessons with no books and no schedule?”

  Hawa shrugged again, so I tried a different tack.

  “What are the kids like?”

  “Some very good, some very bad. Mos’ very, very lazy! You see! You see!”

  “How good is their English?”

  “Most is okay. You see!”

  “What is the Middle School Principal like?”

  But Ms. Hawa didn’t get the chance to respond. Raised voices from the room next door made us both stop and listen.

  “Tha’ Mr. Brewster,” she whispered. “With Datu. He the computer guy. They try fix the schedule. I don’ know who the lady voice is.”

  “I do. That’s Miss Daryna, the High School Principal.”

  Just then, my mobile phone rang. It was Joe.

  “How are you getting on? I can’t find a staffroom that isn’t full of people, but I’ve met a teacher called Rashida, and she’s shown me a place where we can sit outside in the shade. I’ll meet you at the main door, okay?”

  The argument next door was getting more heated, although I couldn’t make out any actual words. Hawa excused herself and slipped into her own classroom. I shut the door on my own dismal little classroom and went down the corridor to meet Joe. We crossed the courtyard together, the sun blinding us and making us squint. The heat was unbearable.