I always love the first day of school. The bright new clothes. The nervous
laughter. Students who gather in cheerful clusters of conversation–but my
absolute favorite part of a new school year is what I call “the squeal”—the sound
students make when the bell rings to go to class.

This year, the bell rang, the students squealed, and everyone scurried to class.
Everyone, except for two.

Baktash and Aaisha stood clearly apart, looking lost to the point of bewilderment.
This is how I found them–with their crinkled schedules tightly clutched. This is
how I discovered they could not speak nor understand a single English word
beyond “Hi.” Baktash and Aaisha were two students from Afghanistan and they
spoke Farsi. Only Farsi.

Now, every year, we do have a handful of students for whom English is a second
language. They come from South America, Europe, China—virtually every part of
the world. In my experience, they also come with a working knowledge of
numbers and basic directions. This was not the case for Baktash and Aaisha.

Instinctively, not only was I concerned about Baktash and Aaisha making it to
their classes, break and lunch, I was also worried about how the other students
would treat them.

I was significantly aware of the alarming statistics regarding bullying of students
who were (or just perceived to be) of Middle Eastern descent—the issue becoming
exponentially worse with students who identified as Muslim. In the back of
mind, beyond the immediate ‘housekeeping issues’ at hand, I worried about this
too.

Among the many case studies and statistics they cited, the March 2018 NPR
Article Muslim Schoolchildren Bullied by Teachers and Students best presented a
bird’s eye view. In this article, author Akiniya Ochieng writes “Muslim children
are more likely to be bullied in school than children of other faiths. A new survey
by the Institute for Social Policy and Understanding (ISPU) reveals that 42 percent
of Muslims with children in K–12 schools report bullying of their children
because of their faith, compared with 23 percent of Jewish and 20 percent of
Protestant parents.” Almost half of the Muslim students report being bullied due
to their faith.

The very word “bullying” has taken on a life of its own. As an administrator at a
middle school, I am in charge of ensuring that 1500 students treat each other with
respect every minute of every day. In many ways, we expect more from our 12
year-olds than we expect from adults.

With so many concerns stampeding through my mind, I approached the two
students. Fresh faces, with large brown eyes and pained expressions, held out
their schedules to me.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Mrs. Orloff. Welcome to school.”

They nodded. They had no idea what I just said. Aaisha’s eyes filled with the
predictable tears. Baktash put his arm around her shoulder in a gesture I
imagined he had done hundreds of times throughout their challenging life.
Later, when I pulled their files, I learned their father had been embedded with
the U.S. Troops in Afghanistan and was granted a Visa for his family. They had
recently arrived in the United States. For Baktash and Aaisha, I can only imagine
arriving from war-torn Afghanistan to a middle school of upper-middle class
students must have felt like landing on the moon.

Gently guiding them to our office, I worked with our student support team,
alerted their teachers and notified our campus supervisors. We scrambled to
find anyone on campus who spoke Farsi. How were Baktash and Aaisha going to find the bathrooms? The health office? Their next class? How were they going to
keep up with the teacher? And what about bullying? Could they even report it?

In the coming days, we found a few students who spoke some Farsi and we
arranged time for a campus tour, locker opening lessons and where to go for
break and lunch.

But, what renewed my faith in all of the students is the way the rest of the
students have so willingly taken them under their wing. Just the other day, I saw
Baktash in the middle of a small pack of 6th grade boys heading toward our field.
I rushed over there. “Hey guys,” I asked, searching Basktash’s face for any trace of
fear. “Where are you headed?”

One boy looked at me. “We asked Baktash if he wanted to play soccer.”

Another boy piped up, “He’s from Afghanistan you know,” he pointed at Baktash
with a thumb. “They’re some of the best players in the world and he’s gonna be
on my team.” He grinned at Baktash and pointed at himself. “Football. My team.”
Baktash nodded and gave an example soccer kick.

From a distance, I kept my eye on the boys and Baktash looked so happy. Strands
of his fine black hair stuck to his face with sweat and I noticed he’d bite at his
lower lip when he ran. But it didn’t end on the field. These boys invited Baktash
to eat lunch with them, helped Baktash with his locker, and guided him to his
classes.

And what about Aashia? Were the girls being as kind? A teacher had welcomed
her to our lunch time “games group” where a table of two boys and two girls
asked her to join. During a game of UNO, Aaisha was learning her colors and her
numbers. The teacher shared with me that the table lets out a cheer, not when
someone “won” or made a great “play”, but when Aaisha pronounced the right
color or number.

I know there are many more important, world-altering topics occupying the
news. I know society struggles with monumental issues impacting millions of
people. Now I understand the hope to address those issues lies in the hearts of
our youth.

Shame on me for assuming the worst. Shame on me for expecting that these
students would be bullied. Shame on me to anticipate with fear that Baktash and
Aaisha would be shunned, rejected and hated. I’ve never been so happy to be so
wrong.

It is in such reflection that, in my little corner of the world, I witnessed hope.
Authentic kindness from a place where humanity lives–in the hearts of children.

As adults, we can learn a lot.