jordan pulse -

By Atef Abu Hajar
In our school days—those days we thought were as endless as the morning assembly—every classroom had its own ecosystem, much like a small jungle with its own unwritten laws. There was the class monitor, that administrative entity who believed power began with the attendance ledger, the eraser, and the chalk. There was the top student, whom we loved in theory and loathed in practice. And there was the "class clown," whose only known specialty was sparking chaos at critical moments, operating like a walking crisis project.
Not to mention the artist, who saw a canvas in every textbook; the athlete, who ran more during class than he actually comprehended; and then came the "Class Bully" (Mukhawi Al-Saff)... that mythical creature who had repeated two or three grades, making him the tallest among us, the broadest of shoulder, and the most formidable in strength. He would enter the classroom like a great conqueror needing no introduction, for his mark on our faces served as a sufficient curriculum vitae.
The "Bully" was an institution unto himself: he cheated on exams with the confidence of a leader, eyed our sandwiches with an insatiable appetite, and had a designated employee to carry his backpack. We were practically waiting for him to appoint one of us as a health inspector to check his hair for lice and nits—which were, in all honesty, an unannounced part of school heritage.
Then one day, at the absolute peak of our revolutionary consciousness, we decided to put an end to this situation. We met in secret, as if planning to liberate the classroom, and agreed on a comprehensive school coup. We asked ourselves: How long will we remain afraid? Are we not human beings with dignity... and sandwiches?!
A foolproof plan was devised: Thursday, at the end of the fifth period. One would trip him, another would grab his arm, a third would pin his neck, and the rest would sit on his stomach. Do not be surprised... his sheer size required a division of labor! As Adel Emam famously said in the play Shahed Ma Shafsh Haja: "Broad-shouldered and heavily built."
My role—as fate would have it—was to trip him. I stepped forward with the confidence of a field commander and stuck my foot between his legs, imagining a massive army of my classmates right behind me. But the winds, as usual, do not read our plans. In a split second, he grabbed me by my shirt, lifting me off the ground like a hanging billboard. I looked behind me... only to find empty space.
My comrades had vanished, the revolution had evaporated, and with it, my faith in the collective. At that exact moment, I understood the true meaning of "treachery." I realized that enthusiasm without calculation is like taking an exam without studying... or declaring a coup without men.
And so, our revolution ended before it even began. The "Class Bully" remained in his post, and I remained... a historical cautionary tale preserved in the classroom's memory, under the title:
"How to Lose a Battle... When You Are the Only One Who Showed Up."