In the Middle of Classrooms and Warzones
Fighting to learn in a war-torn land
This End of Week Edition of Ecstatic features Teresa Sfeir
This essay was originally published on September 15th, in Ekstasis Issue 10 Print Edition. In the midst of the horrors initiated by Hamas in Israel this past week, we want to make clear we are not drawing any moral equivalencies between current events and those described in this essay. We are sharing it as a literary peek into the life of an ordinary Christian in a Middle Eastern context in which protracted terrorism and war often come in close proximity to daily life.
Growing up, my parents drilled into me and my siblings that education is a sword and a shield, especially in the hands of a Middle Eastern woman. I took their words to heart. Education had not come easily to my parents during the Lebanese Civil War—the fear of shelling, kidnapping, and death was very real within the school buildings. Teenage students would join militias and arrive at class armed, so that uncalled-for skirmishes were inevitable. Nonetheless, academic life went on, although not without its interruptions. Students attended classes, made friends, and made memories in the playground over a game of marbles or hopscotch, their laughter muffling the sounds of distant artillery.
I remember watching the Lebanese movie 1982 a few years ago and seeing the confusion of schoolchildren as the Israeli aircraft began to hover above the South that year. Yasmine, a schoolteacher, looks long at the sky from the classroom window of a Quaker school, which lies in a serene, mountainous area, and she worries about her brother’s whereabouts. She attempts to keep the students focused on their math exam as the thunderous clap of air missiles intensifies. While some schools were terrorized by the news of war and violence as depicted in 1982, other schools at the heart of Beirut bore the brunt of the civil conflict and stopped running altogether.
The Ahliah School in Ras Beirut closed its doors during the first two years of war. When it reopened in 1977, its main concerns were to guarantee its students’ safety and to preserve the school’s infrastructure. That same year, Wadad al-Makdisi Cortas, who was the school’s second principal, wrote in her journals: “The children lived a long time with horrible stories, and I think it will take more than one generation to obliterate the effects of this ravaging war. If our children cannot live in a world better than our own, perhaps their children can. That prospect alone keeps hope alive.” Today, 46 years later, what has become of these children’s children? What has become of their future?
My country is still facing its worst economic crisis, and many of my people are struggling to get an education. With the lack of resources and infrastructure in the education sector, we are experiencing yet another migration wave of skilled educators and researchers leaving Lebanon. This December, teachers around the country went on prolonged strikes over low salaries, which left students without access to school for months.
One day, as I drove in the back of a taxi winding through the narrow streets of Ashrafieh, the driver asked, “What’s left for you?” I pondered his words amid the vibrant murals of picturesque houses that date back to the French era. “When we were your age, life had quite a few things to offer, but there’s nothing left for you,” he reflected as he rued the plight of this generation. His question caused me to truly wonder: Is this country stuck in an endless loop of thwarted hopes?
As I daydreamed, a memory lingered in the back of my mind of a moment from my school years. In the middle of a crowded classroom, I had accidentally shouted at my teacher words that erupted from my soul: “But I want to learn!”
An uneasy quiet fell over the lecture hall. I was a fresh high school graduate with a firm grasp on my education—but that day, I had forgotten to bring my textbook. In response, my brilliant but exacting professor of English literature had asked me to leave his class.
Something made me turn back, and somehow, the words rang more forcefully than I had intended. The other 80 students watched in disbelief, and the professor’s demeanor grew incredibly still. Was it the sincere quiver in my voice, or my unexpected pivot that caught him so off-guard? All I know is that this professor would not soon forget my candid plea—to learn.
The war has ended, but today, children still “cannot live in a world better than our own.” Like Vladimir and Estragon, in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, it seems that we inhabit a country of unbearable monotony. Like them, we passively try to make the best of what we have been given—stumbling in the dark and fumbling over our words on a barren, gray stage with no hints of life, save a pathetic, leafless tree-like figure. We mouth the words of Estragon: “Nothing happens, nobody comes... nobody goes, it’s awful!”
The Israelite nation must have felt that way, too. They had waited so long for the Messiah, but things kept getting worse. God chose silence in the 400 years following Malachi’s prophecy. Then, when Jesus came, they failed to recognize him, because they didn’t want a Nazarene carpenter-turned-wayfarer. They wanted a political leader who would deliver them from the Roman occupation. But Christ did come to bring deliverance and to do the will of the Father. He came to establish a kingdom—but not the way the Israelites were hoping.
Just like the Israelites, I have been longing for Lebanon’s visible deliverance. Sometimes, I find myself struggling to truly believe that despite the stagnation, God is walking the streets of this country and visiting its children. But then I catch glimpses and recognize his faithful hands and feet, and skepticism becomes hard to sustain. I remember that we are not forgotten.
I joined Youth for Christ this March, and from the start, I saw how the youth of Burj Hammoud—a densely populated Beirut suburb—are finding a loving home and a haven within the walls of its Manara Youth Center. I felt exceptionally hopeful as youth workers shared the stories of teens who found themselves—and Jesus—there. This year, the center has been working toward helping teens fill the educational gap caused by school closures. It is a wonderful thing when we, his church, can make young people feel a little less hopeless about tomorrow. And what better hope is there than that of Christ?
Whenever I have a conversation with a student, they seem to only see hope outside of this country. I may have felt that way too, once. The July War between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006 left 350 schools severely damaged or destroyed. I was supposed to be in the United States that year, but when my visa was denied, the course of my life changed. I was stuck in my war-torn country where its future and mine were uncertain.
Things were so bad that year that UNICEF pledged to cover the cost of school textbooks and supplies across the country. My family and I had left our home in the mountains and stayed at my grandmother’s house in Ain El Remmaneh. Our school had shut down, my dad’s workplace had gone bankrupt, and moving seemed to be the only way to find good, affordable schools. With the wave of bombings that had started in 2004, disruptions had become a way of life.
But God was my hope, and he led the way, as he had promised—For you have been my hope, Sovereign Lord, my confidence since my youth. From birth I have relied on you (Ps. 71:5-6). Looking back, I thank him even for the disappointments. I thank him for birthing me and keeping me in Lebanon, even now. I thank him for using me and growing me here. I trust him with my nation. I trust him with its new generation—I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more (v.14).
In one Saami folk tale, there lay a vast country by the sea. A dark cloud loomed over it, and the sun never shone. So, it was called the Land of Darkness. Its inhabitants were called hut-dwellers, and they were miserable. In the middle of that land, there was a round mountain where 70 shadowy siblings lived in a large log house. Around the house, there were 100,000 reindeer. The shadowy siblings did not need them, but still kept them for themselves.
Because the land had been shadowed by darkness for 3,000 years, the hut-dwellers believed that things would never change. Then, one day, a wise old man appeared riding on a reindeer, and he told them that the sun existed, even though none of them had ever seen it. If only they could find it, then their land would be warm and bright. At first, no one heeded his words except a young boy. But soon, the faith of this boy would ignite hope and resistance in the hearts of a nation. My prayer is that the young people of my nation find the sun—even while darkness still governs it. May they find the courage to insist: "I want to learn!" May they find the hope and faith to make a change right where they are.
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Teresa Sfeir
Writer & Communications Coordinator
Teresa is the Communications and Development Coordinator at Youth for Christ Lebanon. Thoughts on this essay? Leave a like and share in the comments!
God bless you and your work building hope and peace, Teresa.
It falls like leaves...