I am maybe 9 or 10 years old. I'm in the third grade. At this moment its recess, what we happily call "break-time", and we are out playing in the high temperature and the sun. We don't notice how hot it is, and how our scalps are burning. We're too busy playing and trying to stuff our lunches in our mouths in the least time possible so that we can have more play time and not hear scolding from our parents for not finishing our lunches.
I have two slices of bread clinging together with Nutella chocolate spread, like an oversized white Oreo. I am really hungry and sad. There is no specific reason for me to be sad. I just am. I don’t have good friends, girls are really bitchy at 9 years old, and if you don't have a group, or you speak differently, or your skin tone is darker, then you are an outcast. I am such an outcast. It is my first year in this school so I have no "group". They are all Lebanese and Syrian, I am Yemeni so my accent is noticeably different. And I also speak English differently. And I am darker. I have some superficial friends but they only use me when they need someone extra for a game. I don't mind though, I like thinking more than playing, and I have such a demanding and creative life with my brother that I can't be bothered to play silly little games with silly little girls.
As I finish my sandwich I see a boy being beaten up. There are 3 large troll-like kids pounding at him with their bulky brawny fists and arms. They are hulking and strong. He's a beautiful boy, and I am too young to notice boys but I do notice that he is beautiful. His name is Laith, which for some reason means "white lion" to me. It's because of a cartoon I always watch with a white lion called Al Laith Al Abyadh – the White Lion. The real Laith has glossy, silky-smooth, and extremely brown hair. He never cuts it. He is my age and my height. He has dazzling green eyes. I remember this because he goes home with me in the same bus. Everyday he comes home with new bruises and bleeding gums, lips, or hands. I am used to it. Nobody says anything when they see it.
This is my first perception of the notion of bullying, but I don't seem to grasp the severity of it. I am detached and uncaring. But I see the boy being hounded and no teacher coming to the rescue. And I watch him, he is not protecting himself. He is leaving himself open to being hit, because instead of trying to shield himself he is fighting back with all his might, and he is fighting dirty. He is scratching and biting and tearing and crying. It only serves to make the bigger boys hit him harder, because he cannot outmatch one of them let alone three. But he is unremitting and does not stop fighting back.
It begins to hurt me that this is going on for so long and no one is coming to him. Everybody is just watching, and I am surprised that no one can hear his loud sobbing and cries because he is really, really howling.
I begin to feel fear yet I do nothing, just look around for teachers. Finally our Physical Education teacher rushes in and pulls the bullying dogs away from the poor little white lion. He is defeated but still wants to fight, and kicks and bites at the teacher who is in the way. The teacher cruelly shoves him away and tells the little white lion to wash his face with cold water. The boy finally does as he is told. The teacher and the three bullies disappear, and the crowd disappears, but I am still standing there and my heart is broken.
He is washing his face but does not stop weeping. His whole back is filled with sweat and he takes off his white school shirt to reveal cuts and bruises in his arm, and sweat making his sleeveless flannel shirt completely transparent. He sits down and even though he has stopped weeping loudly his body is still heaving with intense sobs. And he sits there whimpering and sniveling. Water, sweat, tears, mucus and blood are rolling down his face.
I know that he hasn’t had lunch because he never has time to eat before he gets into a fight, and sometimes those bullies take his food away. I have a bottle of juice with me. I am really thirsty but I can't stop watching him cry. His hair is wet, his chin is cut, he has bleeding wounds where nail marks are noticeable on his neck, his hands are shaking, and his pants are dirty and torn.
I walk to him, right next to him, but he doesn’t look at me. I open my juice bottle – I know that it is cold and sweet because my mom always adds ice-cubes in the morning so that by lunch time the ice has melted but the juice is really cold and tasty. I hand him the juice bottle. It is heavy and army green and contains at least 4 large glasses of juice.
We're not allowed to drink anything but water in class so it is mom's idea of defiance to put juice in our water bottles. Nobody can tell it is juice. His hands are fragile and he can scarcely carry the bottle but he does. He puts his whole lips around the small opening of the bottle and gobbles it down. He is surprised at the taste because he expects water, but likes it immediately. He drinks and drinks and drinks. And when he stops for breath he doesn't move the bottle from his mouth, he just stops drinking, breathes heavily through his nose, and then goes back to drinking. I am pleased that he likes it so much; I know he does because it's my favorite juice. I am also happy that he accepts my offering. I am too young to know the gratification that comes when you help someone. For me it just feels good to have him accept my help.
I do not realize how dehydrated he is and am surprised to see him drink so much, but also delighted.
He is done and gives me the bottle back, but I look at the opening of the bottle, it has a little blood and sweat on it, and for some reason I know that I will never drink from that bottle again. I tell him to keep it. He says thank you, and looks genuinely delighted because now he can keep drinking. His face is still tear-stained and his chin and lip are still bleeding. His voice is harsh and sore from his stinging throat, and he can barely stand up when the bell rings for us to line up.
I forget the boy and start looking for my brother. I always make sure he is standing in his line before I go to my line. He is nowhere to be seen. I panic. I start asking his friends where my brother is, they say they don’t know. I go to my teacher and whine that my brother is missing, and she tells me to just go back to line. I start crying. The tears keep rolling down my face and I keep wiping them but they keep coming. I don't even know why I'm sad I just want to find my baby brother. I am also affected by the hurt boy but I can't tell it at that age. I get yelled at for running around the playground when recess is over but I don't care. My baby brother is my responsibility and what if what happened to that poor little beautiful boy happened to my brother. But now everybody is standing in line and getting ready for class, and I have no choice but to obey the rules.
Now I'm crying for both the beautiful boy and my brother, but of course at that age I don't know it yet. My classmate Hazza' is standing behind me – also a bully and always playing pranks on me, a boy I really dislike – and he taps me hard on my shoulder and asks me why I'm crying. I tell him I can't find my brother and I cry some more. He scans the line where my brother usually stands with his friends, and then looks back at me. He looks again and seems sad that I am sad. This is the first time he doesn’t see me annoyed at him, and he sees a little girl crying and perhaps instinct makes him feel he should do something to help me, because I look at his face and I can see confusion and restlessness. There is a kid reciting the Qur'an on a microphone, but her voice is distant and all I want is to see my brother. After a few minutes Hazza' the bully is really miserable, and he tries to come up with reasons why my brother isn't there. Maybe he is in the bathroom. Maybe he is in the front of the line and we can't see him. Maybe he was sick today and he didn't come to school at all. Bingo. That was it. Now I remember. My brother is at home today. I don't tell Hazza' how stupid I am in forgetting that my brother is sick, but I tell him thank you. He looks relieved but concerned. All day that day during class I notice he is looking at me, and he waits till he can see my eyes, and when he is sure I am not crying, he goes back to what he is doing. In my young age I already realize the effect of tears on men, and how Hazza' the bully for some reason wanted to help me even though he knows I don't like him, like it is his duty to stop me from crying. I stop crying.
School ends quickly and when I go home I am pleased to see my brother watching television. I don't tell him about the little white lion. My mother asks me where my juice bottle is. I tell her I don't know. She is a very accepting mother and doesn't ask again, and instead of an army green large bottle, the next day I have a Barbie-pink juice bottle.
Years later, I leave that school and go to a larger, more multi-cultural school, and I start preferring a social life rather than thinking. I join clubs and am outspoken, loud, and a bit naughty. Hazza' the bully had failed school and was sent away. One day, I am swimming and someone comes to the pool with a friend of mine. That someone is tall, beautiful, with dark green eyes and short brown hair, and the one thing i notice about him is his red cap. I ask him if he has a younger brother called Laith, because to me Laith is still young. He says that he is Laith. I tell him who I am but he doesn't remember me. And he has changed. He is cruel and arrogant, loud, always angry, and has a very dirty mouth. I dislike him right away, he has become the very bully he used to fight against, and I have never seen him since.
