A promising generation?

I can understand and fully sympathize with those who speak English with an Arabic accent, replacing their “P” with a “B.” The “P” after all does not exist in Arabic so from where they come from, it’s perfectly safe to say “combuter, Baris, and Eurobe.” A store near my office has a big sign saying any women’s hand-bag for “200 SB” (Syrian Bounds). Funny as it may sound, I both respect and accept that. They are speaking English with an Arabic accent, just like the Pakistanis, the Indians, or the French do when speaking English.
But I still cannot understand, nor accept, those who mispronounce letters the opposite way, replacing their “B” with “P.” This produces horrendous words like: Pill Clinton, Pasketpall, Parper, and Habby Pirthday.
I always wondered how they would ever pronounce “Big Ben.” Would it become—with a totally different meaning—Pig Pen?
Apart from being sarcastic to lighten up this article, it’s not our duty here to criticize. On the contrary, it is our job to spread knowledge and to educate, through proper education of the parents, good schools, and pioneering projects like the University of Kalamoun in Syria, or FW: Magazine.

One student came up to me the other day, during a midterm exam, and bluntly said that he was going to cheat in class, asking me politely, being a young teacher who is a friend of the student body, to look the other way. I thought he was kidding—surely nobody could be that rude!
To my surprise, however, during the exam he actually took out a cheat-note, and smiled at me from the end of the classroom, lifting a thumbs-up. I yanked the cheat note out of his hands and tore it apart, giving him a zero.
I was dumbfounded, however, by how rude people can be, and surprised at how fast things are changing from one generation to the next. Some people, clearly, do not want to learn.
I was a student, not-too-long ago. I bravely admit to my students that I cheated at times, but always trembled when I did. We were a mischievous generation, no doubt, but we had respect for our teachers. We skipped class, yes, but at the end of the day, we strove for knowledge, and as AUB founder Daniel Bliss once said, “and that nothing but the truth prevails amongst us.”
We read books, plenty of books, and spent endless nights—overnights as they were called at AUB—preparing for exams or a research project. We did not have the luxury of the Internet, which started in Lebanon while we were leaving college and was nowhere as efficient a research tool as it is today. We had big dream and big ambitions, knowing that once we graduate and enter the work force, we had to start from the very bottom and work our way up. I recently met a young woman studying at the Higher Academy of Theatrical Arts. Her dream in life was to work in television, the biggest turn-off for any serious actor. She wanted things the easy way; the shortest route to stardom. My generation of actor friends (who worked in mud until the private sector started producing Syrian drama) dreamt of working in theater; the real passion for a serious actor or actresses. My first paying job offer was that of a mediocre researcher at a Beirut think-tank, for $400 USD/month; this is with one book to my name and already writing regularly for the Beirut press. My students today want to graduate and become, overnight, the 21st century Churchills of the Arab World.

This is not to say that I have not had students who were both inspiring and challenging to teach. Some of them have never ceased to impress me, and usually, they are the ones from rural, underdeveloped districts of Syria. The vicinity of Tartous, rural Homs, and the Euphrates have produced some of the finest students I encountered. Sadly—and this is a constant observation I have had—the natives of Damascus and Aleppo, are the least impressive (with a few notable exceptions) among the student body. They probably have too many distractions, with a security blanket from family business, land, or connections. The rest have nothing to lean on, and so much to prove.

Students enrolled in their freshman year in 2008 were born either in 1990 or 1991. This means they were either 6-7 when the Internet Revolution took over Syria. As far as they are concerned, the occupation—then liberation—of Kuwait in 1990-1991 is history, no different from World War I. These young people were 10 years old on September 11, 2001. Their world is so very different from ours. They have the democracy of information at their fingertips. They have satellite television that can beam any event taking place around the world right into their homes. With the click of a mouse, they can read an unimaginable amount of data about life, philosophy, politics, and religion. They have the luxury of getting a first-class education at home at one of the many private schools that have mushroomed all over Syria.
Challenged by this generation, I wanted to test the waters before starting a new course with them at university.
“Do any of you know who Antune Saadah is?” I used Saadah as an example because he was a legendary figure, whose thoughts affected the life of millions both during his lifetime and after his execution in 1949.
31-students, no reply. Blank expressions. They did not know who Antune Saadah was. Many honestly did not care.
“Have you heard of Abdul-Rahman Shahbandar?” Shahbandar was one of the leading nationalists in Syria under the French Mandate. No name was more popular to children growing up in the 1920s and 1930s.
These young people had heard of the Shahbandar Square (named after Shahbandar) or the Shahbandar Bakery (named after the square) but not of Abdul-Rahman Shahbandar.
“Gamal Abdul Nasser?”
“He was the president of Egypt, Doctor?”
“Yes, do you know what he did?”
Blank expressions.
“Do you want to know?”
More blank expressions.