Santa Claus in Baghdad and Other Stories about Teens in the Arab World

8. The Plan: A story from a Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon: Can the spring flowers bloom—and love blossom—where hope is so scarce?

8 the Plan A STORY FROM A PALESTINIAN REFUGEE CAMP IN LEBANON The moment the new art teacher walked into Rami’s classroom , he and every other boy bounced up straight in their seats. With her cheerful smile and green eyes, her shiny brown hair and pink smock that said “You Gotta Have Art,” she looked like all the flowers of springtime. “We are very fortunate, boys,” announced the principal in his best speech-making Arabic, “to have Miss Nuha Trabulsi to teach you art for the rest of the term. Of course, she has to go to other schools in the camp as well, and therefore she can come here only one day a week, on Thursday. But she will make you learn many things about art—how to draw and how to paint, and maybe other things.” He glanced at Miss Trabulsi for confirmation. She smiled. “Definitely,” she said. Rami thought, only one hour a week? And he’d have to share Miss Trabulsi with more than a thousand other boys? Others might have been discouraged by such odds, but not Rami. After one good look at Miss Trabulsi, he decided on his life’s mission—for the next three months, at least. Actually, the whole thing was quite simple. Rami’s handsome SANTA CLAUS IN BAGHDAD AND OTHER STORIES 164 brother, Marwan, was twenty-eight. All the female relatives in his family thought Marwan needed a wife. They fussed about it year in and year out. They schemed and plotted, argued and wailed. But nothing came of their efforts to marry off Marwan. Without a decent job, Marwan saw no point in even talking about it. Meanwhile , every day he was getting more beaten-down, more discouraged , more hopeless. He needed something good in his life. Like Miss Nuha Trabulsi, Rami thought. She’d be sure to cheer him up. All Rami had to do was find a way for Marwan and Miss Trabulsi to meet and to realize that they were meant for each other. School suddenly became much more interesting for Rami. Looking forward to Thursday each week, he began to feel more kindly toward the drab concrete building, no matter how overcrowded and shabby it was. Like everything else in the camp. (The word camp always struck Rami as weird because it was no camp at all—nothing like what he heard the scouts did sometimes, up in the mountains. The camp he knew was just an ugly, makeshift, congested corner of the world for Palestinians to live in, because there was no other place for them.) Anyway, here was something new in camp: art. Rami had never cared much about art, because all they’d ever done in art class before was copy cartoon characters, which got boring. With Miss Trabulsi, however, the boys woke up fast. The first two Thursdays she taught Rami’s class, Miss Trabulsi had them draw pictures with colored pencils. Not just the maps of Palestine and displays of gunfire that the boys usually liked to draw, but beautiful, imaginary scenes . . . blue underwater palaces, skiers in red jackets on brilliant mountains, clouds shaped like griffins, abstract patterns in rich colors. “Because, boys,” said Miss Trabulsi in her loud, clear, confi- THE PLAN 165 dent voice, “every one of you is unique. And every one of you has more imagination than you think.” On the third Thursday, Miss Trabulsi announced, “Good news, boys! I’ve been given some nice paints and plenty of paper. But now the bad news. No brushes.” A groan ran through the room. “Oh, there’s hope,” Miss Trabulsi went on. “We still have a little money left, so if I can find any brushes in the market, we’ll do some painting next week.” At that instant, golden-fisted inspiration struck Rami a swift blow and knocked him right out of his seat. He shot up, his hand waving frantically. “Miss! I know where you can buy brushes! The very best—and at a good price.” “Oh, do you?” She didn’t know his name. Not yet. “And where might I find these wonderful brushes?” “I . . . I’ll take you there. I promise.” Miss Trabulsi seemed amused. “Okay,” she said, “let’s meet here at ten tomorrow morning, since you don’t have school.” Rami nodded vigorously. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he sat down and slid lower in his seat. His friend Mohammad...