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3 Reformatory Sessions· 26 · One is not born a warrior, You become one. Arab proverb M     was the motto of our schools and families. Neither our teachers nor our parents tolerated flaws. We were born impeccable, and we had to remain thus.We were given no allowances to be careless, to make mistakes, to stumble over a stone. We were not permitted to ask questions, to inquire, to have a thirst for knowledge. The possibilities of other worlds were closed to our access. We could exist only within the limitations of the space we were able to see in the not-by-choice experience of lowering our heads, from which position we counted empires of ants. At home, there were the Ten Commandments to follow, and many more made up by the earthly parents. Thou shall not live! Thou shall not breathe! Thou shall not speak! Thou shall not have a mind! Thou shall not eat in excess! Thou shall not jump overboard! Thou shall not walk over the border! Failure to carry them out meant hours of physical torture. At school, the smallest deed was a felony that needed to be punished. It could be forgetting to do our homework, failing to answer a question, speaking when we were not asked to, or doing anything that the teacher thought was inappropriate . Different teachers had diverse standards for crime and punishment . Some made the errant student go in front of the class and take off his pants or lift her skirt to make sure no extra garment was hidden beneath for protection and then hit the student’s buttocks with a big piece of wood. Another type of punishment was to spend the entire period in a corner or in front of the class, where you had to squat down, put your hands across the back of your legs and between your inner thighs, and reach up to your ears. You were to stay for the full hour in that position, your hands holding your ears, your face facing the class, your buttocks pointing at the blackboard and your legs slightly bend, trembling like a leaf in the wind. It was in those classrooms that the root of forbearance was planted in me. The teacher holds the ruler, mom the switch, dad-non-dad the belt. And I count the one hundred steps to death. I have got a magical pill in my head. I am planning to use it to stop the pain that will come from 1. The Ruler. 2. The Switch. 3. The Belt. There is fear gripping the cords in my throat. I am choking, choking to death. I say a prayer, but God won’t come to my rescue. I close my eyes, but I can still picture the shape of the wooden stick, the swing of the switch, and the flight of the belt. The tears come undulating on my cheeks, releasing one thousand years of solitude. I gain strength from morals carried in the aftermath of things. I am at home on my way to school, and I am anticipating the wrongdoings of the day. I am counting the one hundred steps to death, one by one, all the way to school. The pharaoh has a power on me no one will ever know. He rules all the keys to my emotions. One word from him and I will reach out for the ropes and fasten them tight. I’ve to secure the middle ground of my sanity. One—two—three. . . . My thoughts. How can I hinder my head from brooding thoughts of death under the hurling lashes of a wooden ruler? Seven—eight—nine. . . . Reminder: Remember to take the magic pill. Thirteen—fourteen—fifteen. . . . Mom is in one of her notorious melancholic moods. She won’t talk to me. She won’t look at me. She is in a voyage of prayers. Days like this, I am scared of her, of her oblivious state and death-like presence.Thirty-seven—thirty-eight—thirty-nine, . . . I’m shaking. I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t want to face the pharaohs and those braying kids, my classmates. But mom’s mere presence is sufficient to drive me away. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but home. Home has become a place of solitude. The maternal bosom is no longer a refuge. No asylum is granted in mom’s land of agonies. Fifty-nine—sixty—sixtyone . . . The street is one big...

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