It was fifteen past one in the afternoon. I was supposed to be already seated in my physics tutorial class that begins at
one. Hey, don’t jump to conclusions yet. I’m not one of those college students who enjoys being late for class. Heck, my parents are paying a shit load of money for my education and I’m not going to let it go to waste. And my issue with hardly being able to pass the subject has nothing to do with me being late for tutorial. There’s even more reason that I should be on time, but I thought, why bother? The
lecturer’s always half an hour late. I’m not wholly blaming Mr. Mo for my failure to pass. I just haven’t mastered the calculations part yet, on the contrary to the fact that I’m (self-proclaimed) terrific at creating new formulas. Mr. Mo’s sort of an okay physics lecturer (if compared with all the teachers who have taught me physics). He makes physics seem like a subject that morons could pass. Alright, let me rephrase the part I said I haven’t mastered how to calculate yet. Mr. Mo speed teaches. Two hours worth of lectures are often cramped into a one hour class. I pushed past the hostel lobby door, jumped down a short fleet of stairs, entered the academic campus block directly in front of it. Life is convenient. I went a floor down to the classroom to find the door already closed. Looks like Mr. Mo made it to class early today, I thought. I peered through the glass window of the door and, hey, that’s not Mr. Mo! I did a 360 degree turn, a slow turn not a ballet- spin kind of turn. No need to panic. I grasped the door knob, turned it to right, pushed the door open and set a foot in. It took five seconds for me to register those familiar, but rather confused faces of my course mates staring back at me. Okay, they’re just as blur as I am. I’m in the right place. I seated myself in the empty front row. “Who is he? “ I whispered to a friend sitting behind me. My friend shrugged. “I am replacing your general physics lecturer be’ kaus he is unwell,” the foreign looking, rather stumpy man said, almost as if he had heard me, at the front of the class. “Mr. Mo has asked me to help him so it’d be good to have your full cooperation”. He sounded German. His cookie-colour brown hair was parted some where off the middle of his head. He was very comical looking, sporting an Albert Einstein moustache and he had large thick glasses. I pulled my thick, heavy hardcover physics textbook out of my bag and proceeded to solve the problems he had instructed us to solve. The foreign lecturer’s handwriting (the solutions of the problems) on the whiteboard was gargantuan. I seriously mean it. My course mates were all smiles about not having to squint. If Mr. Mo made physics look like a subject morons could pass, the German sounding lecturer made physics look like a subject elementary kids could ace in. Halfway through the class, he asked: “Do you know who I am?” Apart from informing us that he’s replacing Mr. Mo, he never did mention his name. Silence. None of us knew him. Coming to think of it, any Tom, Dick or Harry could’ve just walked into class and pretend to teach and we still wouldn’t know. Reminder. Must pay more attention. “I’m Mr. Ammar “, he said. Pardon? What? We couldn’t understand what he said because of his thick accent. “I’m Mr. Ammar “, he repeated, as he wrote his name on the board and proceeded to write the name of his country. “I’m from Iraq”. The chatters were drastically reduced to hushed mutters. Blink. Blink. Inhale. Exhale. Mental sigh. Typical, typical. No surprises there. I knew that would happen the moment Mr. Ammar said he came from Iraq. I love the Middle Eastern for no particular reason, or maybe it’s because their guys are gorgeously handsome and dried apricots come from somewhere around there. Anything Middle Eastern is fine to me. My moment of happiness was destroyed with those akward facial demeanors of my course mates. It looked as though they were half expecting him to pull out a gun and shoot us all. The rest of the tutorial session continued with sprinkles of hushed mutters in the background. I thanked him at the end of the class as he left. As soon as he walked out, a couple of friends joked about him. “Hey, we had a
terrorist teaching us today “, a friend laughed. Crushed may not be the most suitable word to describe how insulting it was. Disappointed can be used. Forcing a smile, I chucked me textbook into my bag and left the class alone. And I couldn’t help thinking “ What’s wrong with these people? “ Disappointed is the word.