Chaos in the Classroom

Words are indistinguishable beneath the screams. Some of the children have taken shelter beneath tables. Others roll on the floor or lie where they have fallen. Chairs have been turned upside down; the classroom is in chaos. The bomb flies through the air…

‘Quick!’ I cry above the commotion. ‘It’s about to explode!’

And then it does. With an almighty:

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

The children stare for a moment at the object that had been ticking down so relentlessly, and then fall about laughing.

‘Kikiriki!’ they scream in delight. (This is an essential word to know if you ever want to converse with a cockerel in Czech.) ‘Kikirikiiiii!’

I press a finger to my lips in the vain hope that they will scream less loudly. It doesn’t work. I look at the clock. We continue the game.

‘Are you OK?’ asks a colleague, as I emerge, fraught, from the frontline.

‘Kids,’ I reply.

Karen nods. ‘Half the battle of teaching is liking the kids,’ she says sagely.

‘It’s not that I dislike them. I do like them. Mostly. They’re just very loud and… full of energy.’

She shrugs. ‘Rather you than me.’

I take a deep breath and brace myself for the next onslaught. ‘See you on the other side.’

I walk into the classroom that has been transformed from a battlefield to an orderly place of learning. The children are sitting quietly. ‘Bye!’ they say.

‘Hello,’ I correct them (‘Ahoj’ means both ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ in Czech). ‘How are you?’

One girl proudly holds up nine fingers. ‘I’m ten.’

Her neighbour nudges her. ‘Jak se máš?’ she whispers by way of translation.

The girl smiles sheepishly. ‘I’m happy!’

I turn to her neighbour. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m happy too!’

I sigh. This might not be the chaos of the previous class, but it still feels like a battle sometimes.

A couple of hours later and there is no trace of war. This time, when I look at my watch, I am surprised to see that time is up. I close the textbook. ‘Any plans for this evening?’ I ask my student.

‘I think I will get a coffee,’ Ondřej replies – and then adds: ‘Would you like to join me?’

Instead of coffee, we go to an oriental teahouse. The place doesn’t look open: the wooden blinds are down and there is only a glimmer of light visible through the slats if you look closely. We push the door open and walk through heavy curtains into a gently lit interior. It is quiet in here, but not from a lack of custom: there is simply no need to raise your voice above a murmur. We wander from room to room, casting our eyes across an array of shisha pipes, bookcases and floor seating before choosing a small table with wicker chairs and a teapot functioning as a candleholder.

I am a little overwhelmed by the wide selection of teas. Thankfully, I have a local Czech expert with me. Ondřej recommends a Chinese green tea with a subtle flavour and then introduces me to the art of brewing. A very enjoyable evening is spent savouring tea and conversation.

At the end of the day, I roll into a peaceful sleep. (According to my watch, I am still peacefully asleep while having breakfast the next morning. Dad’s theory-of-old is proven true at last.) The morning will undoubtedly bring more combat, but I know that peace follows not far behind.