I still have it…her autograph, which she gave to me forty years ago. She asked me to write a few lines on one of its pink pages as a remembrance. I forgot all about it and it remained with me until I found it recently while looking through my old papers and pictures.
It was still the same. Not touched by all that time and the many events that passed over the years. It looked the same as if I had just received it only yesterday. It moved with me from one house to another and from one country to a second. I never noticed it until that moment when I happened to find it by chance. It appeared suddenly, in front of me to awaken a record of memories in my head.
It used to be the tradition when each school year was close to end before the summer holiday, to exchange autographs among classmates. An autograph is a small notebook with colorful pages. Its cover is usually a photo of a flower, a pet, a natural landscape, or two lovers walking on the sand at a beach.
In the autograph, we would write to each other a few words for remembrance. Sometimes, we add a small drawing or a related sticker next to the signature.
Lines from my autograph book dating back over thirty years
Over than thirty-five years have passed since I graduated from Schmidt’s Girls College, in Jerusalem in 1982; the German ancient school where my mother and her six sisters also studied. I spent ten years of my life there, through elementary, preparatory, and high school, of which I still carry with me many detailed memories. The teachers, the names of my classmates, the conversations we had, the secrets we shared, the worries we had, the joys and sorrows we passed through together.
The historical building of Schmidt’s Girls College in Jerusalem, built in 1886
I remember Miss Anna, with her gentle face that brought comfort and reassurance to us as children in kindergarten.
I remember Miss Huda and the mathematics classes before modern math had been integrated into our curriculum causing us confusion. She always smiled and could not hide her laughter whenever I raised my hand to ask about the gender inequality related to inheritance issues whenever we came across the matter in mathematics problems that we had to solve. For me, getting an answer for that was not less important.
I remember Miss Mimi and the Arabic language lessons, and Miss Yvette who taught English in elementary school.
A few lines written in my autograph book by Ms. Yvette Kuttab, our English teacher
I remember Miss Nadia, who was in her early twenties, with her brown face and her black long hair falling over her shoulders, as though her oriental beauty was meant to add glow to her well-articulated classical Arabic language.
Lines written by Ms. Huda Hadmi, our math teacher
I remember Miss Ellen and her multifunctional ruler in her hand during the geography classes. Once she waved it up and down in the air to scold us collectively, while other times, she pointed it towards the map of the Arab world hanging on the wall.
I remember Miss Samia and the history classes which usually were in the afternoon after. Fatigue and sleepiness showed on her face, and us, too.
A few lines written by Ms. Samia Al-Husseini, our history teacher
I still remember Mr. Arthur with his blue eyes; our English teacher who came from Australia to join the school team and teach us at the preparatory stage.
I’ll never forget Mr. Hijjeh with his elongated Hebronite accent. “Ustaz” Hijjeh succeeded to transform the new solid modern mathematic subject into an enjoyable and less complicated one.
I remember Mr. George, who used to come every morning to Jerusalem from the southern town of Bethlehem to teach us Arabic in the pre-secondary phase, to be followed by the well-known, Mr. Khaldi in high school.
A photo with classmates in the 1980s
I still remember Miss Ghada teaching us Biology, Miss Samira and her science classes, and Miss Nazira and Father Anton at the religion sessions.
I still remember the German Sister Constancia playing on the guitar and her ballet lessons to the music of Swan Lake.
Also, Sister Radigundes, particularly when she got angry during the chemistry lessons. She often threw us with the chalk when we used to chatter to draw our attention back to the blackboard.
I still remember Sister Renata and her German classes and the heavy pronunciation of the German language and the difficulties we faced in learning its grammar.
The writer wearing a hat, performing on stage at the school
Oh! And who forgets our music teacher, “Sir Vahe,” and his Armenian-Arabic accent. How beautifully he played the piano and the accordion in the big school hall; how he used to train us how to sing in the choir for hours in preparation for the two school celebrations, the one before the Christmas holiday in December and the second marking the end of the school year in May.
He always made us laugh when he used masculine order verbs in Arabic with us. I still hear him yelling, “Uq’ud,” (sit for male in Arabic) instead of “Uq’udi” (sit for the female), and “Uskut” (shut up for the male in Arabic) instead of “Uskuti”, (shut up for the female).
Who forgets Miss Aya, her humor and jokes during the art and drawing classes, and how we enjoyed her drama and home home-economics classes.
I still remember Mr. Michel and our sports lessons: Basketball, handball, gymnastics, and our preparations for the annual sports day the school used to organize toward the end of each academic year before the summer holiday.
And, for Miss Anjel, there is a remarkable part in our memory that is unforgettable. Ms. Anjel was the principal of the school. She used to do sudden inspection tours to the classrooms to ensure that everything was under control, to check that our nails were short and clean and our school uniforms long, not above our knees.
I remember our rebellious debates with her whenever there was a national occasion. On such days, Palestinians used to go out to the streets to protest or go on strikes across the West Bank. We had to work hard to convince Ms Anjel to close the school as part of the activities. We argue with her and get angry when she refuses, but we did not give up easily.
We kept negotiating until we reached a compromise, which was to suspend classes for two or three hours and allow us to organize sit-ins within the school boundaries in the playground and chant national songs. Then, after the permitted time for that is over, we would quietly return to our classrooms and resume studying. It took us forty years to realize that Miss Angel was to a certain extent right, as she believed that education was the most important and effective weapon we should have.
I still remember my classmates, Sahar and Inas, and our competition over who would be ranked first in class at the end of each term.
I remember the twins, Sana and Wafa, who were so identical to the extent that one of the two was able to replace her sister if punished. She would stand in one corner of the classroom with the face to the wall without the teacher noticing that.
I remember Maha and Reem, who lived in the boarding section of the school because they are from Gaza, which is more than an hour drive from Jerusalem. They used to go visit their families at the weekends and during the holidays there. We used to wait eagerly for them to come back with the special “Duqa Ghazzawieh”, a well-known Gazan dish.
I still remember how our class supervisor would choose one of us to be “A’rifeh”, (head of class), whose responsibility was to keep order and to report any misconduct to the “higher authorities”. I do not recall that any “Arifeh” of us had once filed a report against any classmate, as though we had an agreement among us on an implied moral code of solidarity. We were one family in the classroom, for the better and the worse, even if it meant that we all risk a collective expulsion of the school or a deprivation of our graduation ceremony.
I remember our school trips across Palestine to visit the textile factory in Beit Jala and that of glass in Hebron and soap in Nablus.
I remember Miss Georgette, who accompanied us home on the school bus. She used often to ask the driver to stop near a bakery in Wadi Al-Joz to buy a bundle of Arabic bread to take home. We could smell the baked bread from miles away. We sometimes asked her to buy us some.
I remember how we studied for long hours until dawn as we were preparing for the high school final exams, the “Tawjihi”. We were so excited about finishing school and often distracted by discussing plans for our graduation ceremony. Where is the best place to buy the fabric for our dresses! Where to design and tailor it!
I remember how we all stood in white like brides on the stage in the summer of 1982, singing the school anthem together, receiving our certificates, congratulating each other, and closing together one of the most beautiful chapters of our lives whereafter each of us has set out to make her way through in life, and whereafter thirty-five years later I found Amal’s autograph among my old papers and photos.
Photo in front of the school building on graduation day, 1982
Published on March 4, 2021
