Monday morning, I walked into the hall of the “older students”. The dreadful looks they gave me stirred up my apprehension about what was to come. “Good morning”, I greeted. Not a hair moved nor an eyelid batted. In confusion, I babbled on: “My name is Anis Fraiha and I will teach you Arabic.” My words were greeted with a profound silence, which was frightening. Suddenly, one student stood up and replied: “We, Armenians, speak Armenian. We do not speak Arabic. We do not want to speak Arabic!”

The same incident played itself out again on the second and third days. Good heavens, what was I to do? Why was there a frightening silence? What were all those ghastly looks about? I shared my worries with the American director who responded by saying: “I know full well that the Armenians refuse Arabisation. They want to return to Armenia. Let us at least try to teach the youngest among them.” And so, I stepped into a hall packed with young Armenian students the next day and had to endure the same scenario.

A kid of no more than 9 years of age stood up and said: “We, Armenians, speak Armenian. We do not speak Arabic.” A fierce bias rooted in a bitter history. I did not blame them, but I had nothing to do with the decision of the Relief Foundation. What matters to me was to have my USD 150 pay by the end of summer.

Saturday evening, a group of the “older students” attacked the Armenian director in his house leaving him with an injured face and neck and a broken rib that necessitated his being rushed to hospital. The next Sunday morning, Mr. Farah came along and cried out: “Let us be off to Al-Helweh! Fried fish for lunch!” I tagged along and after a while, one of his children came to me requesting that I accompany him to fill the jars with water. But no sooner had I conceded, assuming we were going to the town’s fountain, than he ushered me to a small boat and started rowing into the blue sea.