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Nadima’s Story

The following Monday morning, most of 7R dawdled into the drama studio with about as much enthusiasm as a bunch of zombies. Only Nadima and I (oh, and Kara of course) looked happy to be there. Mrs P put a large cardboard box in the middle of the floor.

‘Don’t forget to use The Box,’ she trilled. ‘It’s our theme, remember.’

Then she asked who would like to volunteer to go first. Much to everyone’s gobsmacked amazement, I put up my hand. 7R sat there, obviously bored to death, waiting to see what we were going to do.

They had absolutely no idea what was about to hit them.

Nadima lay down curled up on the floor at my feet and pretended to be asleep. I stood facing the class.

‘Nadima’s Story,’ I announced and I held up a photo of her family I’d taken at the weekend. ‘Once upon a time there was a family who lived in Syria. Mum, Dad, Nadima, Rasha and little Sami. One night, they were all fast asleep when suddenly …’

I dropped the photo, jumped up in the air and landed as loudly as I could right next to Nadima.

‘KA-BOOM!’ I yelled.

Nadima sat up and screamed.

Half the class nearly jumped out of their skins – and lots of the kids started laughing. We ignored them and carried on. I kept jumping round and round Nadima, landing as heavily as I could. ‘KA-BOOM! … KA-BOOM! … KA-BOOM!’

Nadima flung her arms over her head and curled up into a ball.

‘Bombs fell everywhere,’ I said. ‘KA-BOOM! One landed on the flats next door. KA-BOOM!’

And then I paused, before I said, ‘All Nadima’s neighbours died.’

At which point the kids stopped laughing.

Nadima got to her feet and held up a photo of a school.

‘Nowhere was safe. KA-BOOM!’ I went.

Nadima tore the picture in half and dropped the pieces on the floor. Then she picked up a picture of a hospital.

‘KA-BOOM!’ I yelled.

Nadima tore up that picture too. As she dropped the pieces she said, ‘Many people die.’

Then I pretended I had a gun and ran round ‘shooting’ everyone.

‘Ak-kak-kak-kak-kak! Peyow! Peyow!’

‘Is not safe outside. Soldiers shoot you,’ said Nadima. Then she crouched down on the floor with her hands over her head.

‘Nadima and her family hid in the basement,’ I said. ‘But soon they ran out of food and water. So her dad had to go out.’

Then Nadima stood up, and with her head high she said proudly, ‘My dad very brave. Maybe he come back. Maybe he die. We hear bombs. We hear guns. We wait. We hope.’

By now the class were sitting wide-eyed and dead quiet. I paused before I said, ‘Hours and hours later, he did come back. But he said that some of Nadima’s aunties and uncles and her cousins had been killed.’

Kara’s hand flew to her mouth, and lots of other girls did the same.

‘Nadima’s father said they had to leave, before they all died too,’ I said.

Nadima knelt by the cardboard box, packing it with stuff she’d brought from home, including one of Rasha’s little dresses, Sami’s bunny onesie and his little fluffy blue teddy.

‘We no can take much,’ she said.

Then we held up a big map of Syria with the route Nadima’s family had taken marked on it in red.

‘We walk for four days,’ said Nadima. ‘Mum carry Rasha, Dad carry bag, I carry Sami. We get to refugee camp. But camp full. People say is dangerous.’

I held up a photo of a refugee camp made up of hundreds and hundreds of tents.

‘Then a man told Nadima’s dad he could get them on a boat to Europe. He took all their money and they had to get on a tiny boat with lots of others,’ I said, holding up more photos. These ones showed refugees crammed into boats on the sea.

Nadima climbed into the cardboard box and sat hugging herself and looking scared. ‘Is too many people. We afraid boat will sink. My family, we hold each other.’

‘The sea got rough and the waves got higher and higher and water came into the boat. Everyone had to keep bailing – with their bare hands, otherwise the boat would sink. Nobody had a life jacket. Not even little Rasha or baby Sami,’ I said.

Nadima mimed frantically bailing out water with her hands.

‘Is no food. Is no water. Boat is rocking, rocking. People sick on us.’

I climbed into the box and we huddled together. ‘They were in the middle of the ocean. There were no other boats around to help them. They couldn’t see any land. They were lost. Then it got dark. Everyone was very, very frightened.’

Then Nadima stood up and helped me climb out of the box.

‘In morning boat land. Where are we? Everyone asking. Somebody say Italy. Nobody know.’ She shrugged. ‘We walk on road. Walk. Walk. Walk. Then we see sign!’

I held up a poster we’d made of a ‘Give Way’ sign.

‘Is English! We in UK! We so happy we all cry!’

I rolled up the poster and said, ‘Then the police arrived and took them all to a hostel. Nadima’s parents were frightened they would be sent back. But after a while they were told they could stay.’

Then Nadima held up the photo I’d taken of her family. They were standing outside their new house. She took a deep breath and said, ‘This is my family. This is our home. We all are learning English. We are safe and we very happy to be here. Thank you.’

‘The end,’ I said.

There was absolute silence when we’d finished. 7R just stared at us. Nobody clapped. Nobody said anything. I think they were gobsmacked.

I looked over at Mrs P and was shocked to see she was crying. Really crying. She was trying hard not to show it, by doing a lot of sniffing and blinking hard, but she wasn’t winning.

Finally she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her kaftan and managed to pull herself together. ‘Well, Nadima,’ she said, and speaking slowly to Nadima (for once) she said, ‘We are all very happy that you are here, and that you got here safely. Thank you for telling us your story. Well done, both of you.’ And she started clapping. So the rest of 7R started clapping too … and they carried on clapping while Nadima and I grinned at each other and did a high five before we sat down. Then Kara started whooping and cheering, which gave the rest of the class the excuse to go totally over the top. Mrs P didn’t even try to calm them down.

I looked at Nadima. Her eyes shone and I thought she was going to explode with pride.