There was once an interlude in our days we called snack time. The snack was often nonexistent. But for those who participated in snack time rituals, it was much less about the food and much more about the things that took place during that space in time. Nuhamin gives me a knowing look— it’s almost break time. I glance at Betty and—oh, Betty, she is already miles ahead of us, snacking on dreams, her head resting on her tiny desk. I let her be.
Teacher Bahru enters the classroom, gripping the biology textbook like a talisman, ready to discuss the classification and taxonomy of the animal kingdom. Betty is still asleep. Teacher Bahru moves to the blackboard and sketches out cryptic figures on it. No one quite understands what he is writing, but we all unanimously take on the challenge to solve it—just 20 minutes until the blissful 30-minute reprieve of snack time.
“Teacher Bahru, I know everyone must go someday, but why did you leave without saying goodbye? Were the tears in 10th grade a premature farewell? Remember that time with Tinam and me on our way to PE? Having met you in the hallway, you told us you wouldn’t be our Biology teacher the next year. My friend and I cried justified tears, but you—what was the meaning behind the darker stain on your face?”
The bell rings, and suddenly, the room explodes into purposeful chaos. The once-muted hallways come alive, and some organized force amps the volume from the silence of zero to a blasting one hundred. Doors bang open, and papers and all manners of playthings—balls, racquets, marbles—fly everywhere. Boys dart down the corridors, leaving a trail of disapproving teachers behind. Girls glide down the stair rails, their faces frozen in mid-scream, caught between joy and terror. What pure, glorious pandemonium!
Two years later, the exact moment at the same time of day confronts me. I sit quietly, waiting for the chaos to ebb. This time around, Betty is not in my class. Now a social science student, she pays Nuhamin and me a visit during snack time instead. Her lunch box, filled with the most delicious food, is always a source of delight. And as much as I love her, her presence would simply be incomplete without the lunch box. I take a bite or two, internally thank her wonderful mom for the food, and I walk out of my classroom looking for Lydia. Just as I approach her classroom door, I hear her unmistakable laughter, a sound filled with joie de vivre; I can’t help the shadow of a smile that creeps onto my face as I pull up a chair and join their group.
This is snack time—an essential part of our daily routine. News, ideas, and books are exchanged. Debts, monetary or otherwise, are settled. Club meetings are held. A promenade with a friend or two around the basketball court is a classic way to pass the time. And, of course, there’s always homework to copy. On a daily basis, my notebooks are passed around the classroom, sometimes even making it to other sections, until I have to hunt them down just in time for my classes. Currently, Lydia is making a copy of her technical drawing assignment for several people, all for the right price, while they play soccer outside. She is a paragon of morality, trust me, but she is also cunning, making her endeavor a profitable charity.
Today, however, snack time is briefly interrupted by an important task—Lydia and I need to collect our recommendation letters. She and I have asked teacher Bahru for one, and we head to the staff room to meet him. As we enter, our physics teacher greets us warmly. My history teacher from two years ago finally hands me my certificate from a debate we won, on the very same day the COVID-19 lockdown was announced. Ugh, my name is spelled wrong. Again. I say nothing apart from a quiet “thank you” and accept what is given. We sit beside Teacher Bahru, and just then, our Amharic teacher walks in. We’re holding a slight grudge against him for not letting our batch take charge of the Adwa celebration. Everyone knows celebrating Adwa is the juniors’ privilege—it’s a sacred tradition—but alas, the lockdown has messed with everyone’s timing, so now, apparently, we were not ready enough. Nonetheless, he is happy to see us—what teacher isn’t, honestly?
With official business done and only ten minutes to spare, I head to the library alone to borrow The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho. At the circulation desk, I spot Keetana, or Sai, as we call her, and go around her side for a chat. Ms. Eleni, the librarian, tells us to come during lunch to help prepare posters for Clubs Day, representing the Library Club. She then hands me the massive ledger, reminding me to finish cataloging our books. Honestly, isn’t this a job for computers? “It’s only for the newly added collections,” she says. “We will go fully digital soon.” Hmm, soon, sure.
I make Sai promise to tell me more about Draupadi and her husbands the next time we meet, and beg her to please, please let me borrow the Mahabharata. She laughs at my excitement and awkward pronunciation but agrees. She also tells me that Diwali is next week and invites me to her home for the celebration. I can hardly contain my excitement, but the bell rings, and we’re late for class. Lingering in the hallways at this time is risky business. We say our quick goodbyes for now and scurry to our classrooms. I carefully peek inside mine and sigh in relief—the teacher hasn’t arrived yet. I slip into my seat, with Nuhamin to my right, her textbook flipped open, her notebook and pencil bag at the ready. Mussie, sitting just in front of her, swivels around, pulls out two pieces of paper and two pens, and hands me one of each. It’s time to play the number game—our version of Wordle, but with numbers.
Snack time is over for today, but it will return tomorrow, and each day of the week until our high school days are behind us. There are a variety of reasons to go out: to meet friends, get the occasional hit from a flying volleyball, form the rookie philosophers’ club, debate which new movie to watch that weekend, or sort out bureaucratic issues for the student committee. It was a small, confined world, but it was painted with as much life, color, and vibrancy as there was to offer. And snack times were where those colors shone the brightest.
Writer | Sofia Ahmed Seid ‘26 | sseid26@amherst.edu
Editor | Lainey Noga ’26 | enoga26@amherst.edu