Amina.
Amina is 14 years old, and for three of those years, she read from left to right in Gaziantep, where her family had fled when she was six. School was in Turkish. When they returned to East Aleppo, in the Al-Myassar neighborhood, their home still had a roof, but no windows. Amina could read the signs of Turkish shops, but not the name of her own street. At school, they put her in fifth grade with 48 other students. The teacher writes on the blackboard, and she copies the symbols like someone copying a drawing . In December, she keeps her coat on in class. And in February, she stops going altogether. For three weeks, nobody notices.
It is her mother who brings her to the Pro Terra Sancta center. She actually goes for herself, to the Tuesday psychological support sessions. Amina waits for her in the hallway, until an educator asks her if she wants to join a classroom.
There are 12 of them, all younger than her. She sits at the back. In the first few weeks, she learns to hold a pen a different way. Arabic is written from right to left, and her hand—having gone in the opposite direction for years—freezes midway through the line. The educator doesn't correct her in front of the others; instead, she gives her a notebook to take home with one letter per page: Alif, Bāʾ, Tāʾ.
In March, Amina reads the name of her street. She doesn't tell anyone. The next day, she reads it out loud to her mother, who cannot read in Turkish or in Arabic. Her mother asks her to read it again. And the following Tuesday, her mother signs up for the literacy course. The problem is Khaled. He is 19 years old, has worked in a garage since he was 12, and brings home more money than their father. To him, a girl coming back at six in the evening from a place where there are also boys is simply unacceptable. One evening, he rips her notebook. Amina rewrites the pages on loose sheets of paper and hides them under her mattress.
The center calls about her absence, and then they call again. Eventually, the director asks to speak with her brother. They meet one April afternoon in one of the five classrooms. Khaled arrives with his arms crossed. They show him the attendance register, her grades, and the name of the educator supervising his sister. They explain who is in the class and who oversees it. They ask him if he would like to drop by sometime to see for himself. Khaled doesn't say yes, but the following week Amina is back in class. And at home, nobody asks her where she's going.
In June, she passes the public school remedial exam and catches up with her age group. There are still 50 students in class. In the summer, there isn't even a fan. But now Amina understands what is written on the blackboard, and she raises her hand. The teacher asks her where she learned it, and she replies: "At the center".
She keeps going there in the afternoons. She helps the younger children with their letters. To Yamen, an 8-year-old who, like her, returned from Turkey, she taught a little trick: when your hand goes in the wrong direction, stop and start over from the opposite margin. One autumn evening, Khaled returns from the garage with a folded piece of paper in his pocket. It’s a registry office form, full of boxes. He lays it on the table without saying a word. Amina reads it line by line and explains what he needs to write. He takes the pen and holds it suspended over the first box, then sets it down.
The following Tuesday, in front of the center's reception, stands a 19-year-old guy with grease-stained hands and a brand-new notebook under his arm. And he asks: "Can I sign up too?"
