The Eastern District was no place for a life… it was a place for survival.
A neighborhood like a weary memory, its walls peeling with layers of poverty, its corners hiding timid dreams afraid to be born. Here, ambitions melt like snow on a hot surface, yet people… go on living, as if survival itself were a secret form of worship.
And here I am, waking to a new morning, a new day—the same day that will repeat once more. Everything begins anew at the public water tap.
A whole week without water, and people were shoving as if each wanted to prove to the world that their thirst mattered more than anyone else's.
Raised voices, curses, and faces that looked like the streets themselves—pale and exhausted.
Zainab passed by me carrying two heavy buckets. I helped her with one in the end—she was my childhood friend.
Beside her stood Marwan, my friend, a slender young man whose eyes said what his tongue could not, and whose silence was heavier than a bucket of water. He was like a half-finished dream… no one knew whether it would grow or break.
His mere presence was enough to slow the whole scene down.
He wasn't one to shout or push. He stood by the roadside, watching people as if he could see himself in each one of them.
I greeted him and helped Zainab carry one of her buckets — she's his neighbor and childhood friend, more like a little sister to him.
I asked him,
"Are you going into Mr. Hassan's math class tomorrow?"
"No, I won't. I didn't finish the homework. I'd rather lose one point than four."
Zainab chimed in, "You both study with Hassan, don't you?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"I study with him too. I had a copy done, but I wasn't happy with it, so I wrote another. You can have mine."
"Thanks, Zainab, but I also need an entry pass — I missed class on Saturday."
"Again? Why do you keep skipping every time?"
"Because it's fun — and I'm pretty hooked on it."
"And how do you plan to get an entry pass? The head monitor is fed up with you. He's even pressuring Mr. Abdelhaq not to let you in without one."
"I don't know… but there must be a way. There's always a way."
We finally arrived after the long struggle. I said goodbye to Zainab and Marwan, then went to take a short nap before heading back to school — back to that hell all over again.
As I left the house, I saw him again—walking his mother to the landlord's house.
His mother's back was bent, dragging exhaustion behind her like a heavy load. I went along because it was the same way for me… and the landlady greeted them with the same face, skilled at looking down on people for no reason.
His mother turned to him, her voice low and laced with fear:
"I've heard rumors about you, Marwan… Keep yourself out of trouble. Study hard so you can get me out of this place, son."
That was the first time I saw Marwan face classism laid bare—
His mother humiliated, the place no longer feeling like theirs.
We headed to high school and entered our first class of the week with the greatest teacher in the school—Mr. Abdelhaq, the philosophy teacher.
The first thing he did was ask us, "What does a dream mean to you?"
Then he took the attendance register to mark the absent students.
He saw our names—mine, Marwan's, Anwar's, Abdelkarim's, and Ahmed's—called in by the administration.
Mr. Abdelhaq didn't pay it any mind. Instead, he wrote on the board: What is a dream?
It was a simple question, but it opened a small window inside each of us.
Anwar answered: "We want to emigrate."
Abdelkarim said: "Money."
Ahmed laughed: "We wanna be famous!"
And someone from the back added: "Freedom…"
As for Marwan… he stayed quiet.
He was searching inside himself for something lost—something he didn't yet have a name for.
Mr. Abdelhaq—the philosophy teacher—was kinder than he needed to be.
That's why others made fun of him; even some teachers called his approach too lenient.
He was tolerant even with students who didn't deserve respect, but he was deeply loved by the students.
But before he could begin, the head monitor slammed the door open.
"As-salamu alaykum," he started. "I need the names of those who don't have entry slips.
Where are your slips?! No one's brought one!"
He began dishing out his usual judgments, scolding Mr. Abdelhaq and lashing out at us again:
"You lot don't want to learn! Go work in the fields instead!"
But for the first time, Mr. Abdelhaq's voice rose firm and clear:
— "Enough. You have no right to insult them like that. Before you judge, try to understand why they don't want to be here."
But no one listens to the voice of reason in the Eastern District… especially when it speaks quietly.
The head monitor marched us out to the yard, where chaos was waiting. We headed to the administration office—which felt like a marketplace. The principal was arguing with a student's parent, a teacher was in a shouting match with a student, and the head monitor was yelling at a girl.
It was Ilham—with her bold face and defiant eyes—arguing with the monitor after being kicked out of math class again.
Mariam and Rania stood behind her, trying to hold back their laughter while the monitor looked ready to explode.
And explode he did—after she called him "bareheaded," he started shouting like a madman, slamming doors and raging.
We were all sent out, but Ilham walked away laughing, saying to Rania, "Look at him—he's going crazy."
Ilham was the love of Marwan's life. He once told me, glowing, about her—though only me, Abdelkarim, and Anwar knew.
On the way to the gate, Adam was standing by the yard's door, his shirt half-unbuttoned, a small pack of cigarettes sticking out of his jacket pocket.
His face didn't look like that of a twelve-year-old… but like someone who had learned cruelty before he ever knew how to play.
Guard Abdelsalam, Haj Rashid, and Zineb were there, saying something to him that seemed like advice after his parents had pulled him out of school to sell cigarettes again.
We reached the high school gate and saw Zineb, furious, saying she would report him to the Child Protection Association.
Marwan laughed bitterly:
"Poor Zineb… she doesn't know that associations don't know the way to the Eastern Side. No one cares about the kids here. Whether they study, eat, or even live… it doesn't matter."
Then there was Rania, bragging that she had skipped class again, suspicious that Anwar was watching her.
And Ilham, indifferent, thinking only about buying cigarettes from Adam, which she paid double for, and told him to go to his school and tell his parents to go to work, calling them scoundrels.
At nine o'clock, the bell rang. Teacher Abdelhaq let Ilham and her friends in without a note… and said in a calm but firm voice:
"Come in… this is my class. I'm responsible for you."
As for us, my friends and I, we found the head guard after the chaos in an unusual mood… unlike him.
Moments ago he had been on the edge of a breakdown, shouting at anyone in his path, but now he was calm, as if someone had put out the fire burning inside him.
He looked at us, let out a long sigh, and said in a softer tone:
"Here's your entry note… but this is the last time."
We exchanged glances.
What a strange personality… no one knows when he'll get angry or when he'll soften, or which version of him will greet you tomorrow morning.
Before he walked away, we dared to ask him to change the math homework schedule because we — simply — hadn't done it.
He stared at our faces for a long moment, as if trying to detect lies in our eyes, then waved his hand in mild annoyance:
"No problem."
It felt like a small miracle.
We returned to our classes, chuckling quietly, continuing the day as if nothing had happened.
But the truth was, a lot had happened…
And something had begun to change, even if the change was small, timid, like a whisper.
The smallest details can become the start of something new.
And so our day ended, along with an entire chapter of our lives,
waiting for another morning…
one that might bring new chaos, a new opportunity, or just a moment that makes us ponder for the first time the question the teacher left inside us:
"What is a dream… really?"