Joanne Durham: Becoming Educated 

“I managed to soothe these students as much as possible by means of poetry and prose.” – teacher who set up a Gaza tent school to keep Palestinian children learning –Feb 29, 2024
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A Gazan school I once saw in a photograph –
painted mural on the back wall, wide
window light, rows of wooden desks
scratched by pens the way kids across the world
etch their names into the givingness of grain
to say, “I am here.”

Not one school in Gaza still says, “I’m here.”
Some are rubble, some shells of scarlet silence
blackboards and students erased.

I remember how in Sunday School, to amuse us,
Mr. Rock told Bible stories in the first person:
how he stood next to Moses awed by the burning bush,
witnessed Abraham tie Isaac to the altar,
answering God, “I am here.”

When the Rabbi visited our class, his distant eyes
echoed, “I am still here,” despite his arm
branded with blurred numbers, deeper
than we could carve our initials in wooden desks,
deeper than the sacred engravings Moses carried
down the mountain. The Rabbi told his stories
in the first person, words that did not amuse
but dug into my nightmares. But when he spoke
of Israel, my fears turned to milk and honey,
the Exodus of Jews to the Promised Land,
miraculous act of a merciful God.

Neither the Rabbi nor Mr. Rock spoke of the sacrifice –
the Palestinians who lived in that land, who cried,
“We too are here.” No one spoke
of their exodus, how they fled homes
stolen or burned, children with no entrance
into my dreams. We can pretend not to see
their empty desks, names splintered dust,
but under an unsturdy tent, they still tell their stories.

Copyright 2024 Joanne Durham