Mohamed Rahal

It started with a look. That kind of look boys give each other when there’s already tension, and neither one wants to back down. He shoved my shoulder in the corridor between classes, and I shoved him back. I didn’t even know his name two months ago. Now we can’t seem to pass each other without something happening—comments, elbows, whatever.

Today it exploded. In the school courtyard during the long break. He called me a coward. Loudly. I turned around and punched him in the chest. It wasn’t even a good punch, but he came at me like I’d insulted his entire family. We were on the ground in seconds. Kicking, grabbing, trying to land a hit before someone broke us up.

We attracted a crowd, of course. Everyone loves a fight until it’s over. Then they scatter.

The headmaster came out and saw the mess. My shirt was torn, and my mouth tasted like metal. Blood, I think. He didn’t shout—he just looked at us like we were something he didn’t have time for. Said both our names and told us to follow him. That walk to his office felt like a hundred kilometers.

Now I’m sitting here, in the hallway outside his office, waiting while he calls our parents. I live in Tunis, Tunisia, in a neighborhood not far from Bab El Khadra. I’m fifteen—old enough to know better, apparently, but still too young for anyone to listen when I try to explain myself.

The worst part is knowing that my father will be angry—and disappointed. That’s always worse. He works hard, driving taxis all day in the heat, barely home before midnight. And my mother—she’ll cry. She always does when anything happens at school. They don’t deserve this kind of headache.

What I keep thinking about, though, is why I lost control. Why it felt so important to react, to defend my pride like I was in some movie. But real fights don’t end with applause. They end with bruises, silence, and people looking at you like you’re trouble.

And I guess now I am.