would have gone to special schools, but not now.
I’ve always invested a lot in my students – I do a lot of overtime, making home visits or popping into the McDonald’s where they hang out, so we can have a chat. Mostly, my students appreciate this. Plenty of them have told me so; others have demonstrated it by sharing secrets, big and small, or telling me about their home lives. Believe me, this is not easy for them. In general, a child’s shame runs deeper than their need to talk about their problems.
In the beginning, if I turned up unannounced at their homes, they’d refuse to let me in, but little by little I’ve gained ground. I’ve been in most of their living rooms by now and, yes, I’ll admit that I’m proud of it. Why shouldn’t I be?
I wouldn’t have been able to get up in front of a class and teach if it didn’t inspire me. I feel responsible for my students; I might not be the driving force of their existence, but I do have some kind of influence on their future.
If I call a student to my desk to discuss their behaviour, we can have a conversation without them storming out, as they often do with my fellow teachers. The other teachers haven’t gone to the trouble of attending the inter-cultural coaching sessions – they take up a lot of time in the evenings but give important insights into immigrant children. Every teacher there has come because of troublemakers in their class, and Bilal Assrouti has always been a troublemaker.
Bilal has been in my class for almost two years and we have clashed from the start. He’s the kind of domineering child who rules the roost at home and thinks he can act that way at school too. But the idea that he’d draw a knife…
I’ve been teaching Dutch for seven years now and I’ve never come up against a problem with a student that I couldn’t solve, but every day Bilal gives me the feeling that I’m a failure as a teacher, that I fail at all those things I’m desperate to do well. I’ve tried from the start to get through his armour-plating of defensiveness and scorn – the problems that he has with me as a female teacher – but in vain. And on a sunny morning at the end of April, it’s come to this.
The noise of the school bell pierces the corridors and makes me jump. There’s an instant uproar and shortly afterwards the playground fills up with students. Dark hair, caps and headscarves everywhere. Is Bilal among them or has he gone? Would he really have stabbed me? I shunt restlessly backwards and forwards on my chair and decide not to leave the school premises before I’ve seen Bilal being carted off by the police.
The door opens and Jan comes in and closes the door behind him. ‘Bilal’s friends say he’s left. I’ll get in touch with his parents presently and let them know about the incident.’ He sits down at his desk. ‘Lydia, we’ll address this without delay.’
I let out a sigh. ‘Thank you, Jan. Do you think the caretaker could take me to the police station in a little while? I daren’t go out while Bilal is still on the loose.’
My words are met with silence. Jan coughs and stares at the pen pot on his desk. ‘I’m wondering whether it makes sense to report this. Of course I can’t stop you, but I don’t think it’s worth it. There’s a large chance the case will be dropped due to a lack of evidence.’
‘A lack of evidence? With twenty-four witnesses?’
‘Most of whom are Bilal’s friends,’ Jan argues. ‘Don’t rely on your students too much – they’ll either be loyal or scared of repercussions. I’d rather not have them drawn into this, you understand.’
I stare at Jan as though I’m seeing him for the first time. ‘I don’t understand at all. I’ve been threatened with a knife and you propose we act as though nothing has happened. Why is that?’
I already know the answer. If I report him, Bilal will be arrested and it will generate negative publicity for the school. Rotterdam College has been losing students for years, despite merging with two other schools, and it’s not the first time we’ve made the news in this way.
My disgust must be evident because Jan raises a hand. ‘It’s not about the school, Lydia. The situation will only get worse if you make a big deal out of it. Bilal’s in his final year, there’s no way we can expel him. He’s legally entitled to take his final exams. We’ve all just got to get along for the rest of the year. Reporting him to the police would be like throwing oil on the fire.’
I hesitate. The mere idea of seeing Bilal in my classroom again makes my heart race.
‘I don’t want to run into him in school. I don’t want him in my class anymore, I don’t want to bump into him in the corridor and I don’t want to see him hanging around the assembly hall.’
Jan folds his hands. ‘I swear that Bilal won’t get away with this lightly.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘I don’t want to come across him in the corridors either,’ Jan replies. ‘I’ll suspend him for a while and after that he can finish the rest of the year at the other site. That way he can take his exams and you won’t have to be confronted with him. I’ll inform his parents and arrange an appointment with them for this afternoon. How do you feel about that?’
I rub my forehead, trying to massage away the beginning of a headache. ‘I’m not sure. Christ, Jan, he could have stabbed me!’
‘But he didn’t,’ Jan says in the tone of someone reassuring a child. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Take as long as you need. Get over the shock, make sense of things and let me know when you’re ready to get back in the saddle. You’re too upset to teach right now.’
I shove my chair back and stand up. ‘Fine, but as far as the police go, I’m not promising anything.’
Jan says quietly, ‘If there’s another negative article in the papers it will cost us twenty new students next year and just as many will decide to change schools. That’d mean two jobs on the line, two teachers unemployed. Please, Lydia.’
As I stand in the corridor, amid the bustle of students, I’m overwhelmed by exhaustion. I walk back to classroom no. 209, unlock the door and go inside. My eyes dart to where I was standing when Bilal threatened me. I picture him stabbing me, see the knife in my throat, a big slash across my face. I see the blood pouring out and suddenly I’m shaking uncontrollably.
I gather my papers into the bag I’d left on the small podium and hurry out. I want to go home but my need to talk to Jasmine is stronger. The lunch break is almost over, but I have to tell her what has happened. Jasmine is my colleague and friend; we both joined the school seven years ago, fresh from teacher-training college. We have been through the same problems with discipline and difficult students. In the beginning she lived outside Rotterdam, but as soon as she got a permanent position at the school, she and her husband Lex bought a house in the same street as Raoul and me in the Hillegersberg area. We’d always been friendly, but after they moved into the street, we began dropping round for cups of tea, and looked after each other’s children. Not that either of us have got much time for tea-drinking. We’ve both got families and a busy working week, so we mainly see each other at school.
‘My
