Mention Punchbowl Boys High to people and you’ll hear a whole lot of stories.
You’ll hear how it’s the toughest school in the country, deep in the Lebanese Muslim enclave that surrounds Lakemba, Punchbowl and Bankstown.
You’ll hear how it’s encircled by an eight-foot barbed wire fence.
You’ll hear how intruders once broke into the school and put a gun to a teacher’s head.
You'll hear how part of the school was burnt down one weekend by marauding louts.
You’ll hear about how it’s a hellhole whose population has shrunk from a 1000 in the 1970s to a low of about 275 only a few years ago.
So it was with some trepidation that I arrived at Punchbowl Railway Station on my way to give a graduation speech to their 55 Year 12 students last week.
I was met at the station by the Deputy Principal Robert Patruno, who likes to make sure his kids get from platform to school OK.
And then at the front gate by the Arabic-speaking Principal Jihad Dib whose morning ritual is to greet every boy as they arrive - to get them enthused about the day’s classes.
Both men are energetic young guns in their 30s, who, along with other staff, have forged the links with the community and introduced a range of other programs which have turned the school around. The school is now growing and growing. In fact, it’s now the fast growing public school in the state.
The graduation was truly amazing, with boys from years 7 to 12 confidently speaking to the assembled school community. The Year 12s were dressed in gowns, scarves and mortar-boards. I was later to learn the boy’s parents had made them. At the end, when the Arabic band started up, the year 12s leapt from their seats and began to dance, even pulling in teachers, the principal and yours truly for a go.
Their energy and joy was infectious. The sense of community was like nothing you’d ever felt.
By now I was hanging out for some kind of lunch. But given it was the middle of Ramadan and the school is 80 per cent Lebanese Muslim, I thought I’d skip it – to see how it felt.
The deputy principal took me off to meet the kids instead. I was a little wary, away from the protection of an official ceremony you’d expect the usual smart arse comments and cat calls which come with being a Reality TV face. But again I was in for a shock. The boys, from the youngest to the oldest, were all polite, calling me ‘sir’ and explaining why I should support the Bulldogs rather than the Eels.
And as Robert and I toured the school we accumulated an entourage of chattering kids. Robert explained how a few years ago he’d arrived as a learning support teacher and realised, along with others, that they’d have to start from scratch.
So he and other teachers began visiting homes on weekends to meet with parents to discuss unruly behaviour. He explained how the links had been invaluable – now many parents have his mobile phone number. He explained how they’d brought in a structured punishment regime, a time out room where desks are bolted to the walls – disruptive boys must spend the day, facing the wall, working on their studies and reflecting on their behaviour.
He explained how they’d started their excursions program because many of the kids had never left the local area – many of their parents feel alienated outside their local community. The teachers take the kids to the city or to evening sessions at the movies. He laughed that many of the boys were so scared by the CBD they’d walk right on top of him – he’d have to stop every few blocks and tell them to take a step away. The school even has a fishing club that takes the boys fishing on weekends at Watsons Bay and Cronulla.
He told me the school has now attracted a host of energetic young teachers straight out of university. And that now of the 45 teaching staff, over 17 are bi-lingual Arabic speakers. Now the school has a reputation in the area for individualised learning, with other schools sending them their kids knowing teachers offer free HSC and school certificate tutoring after school and on weekends.
“A lot of these boys go on to TAFE and University and get the extra support they need to be successful,” he told me.
“In the last four years the school has been turned around – it’s not the leadership or the government - it’s the teachers in the classroom day in day out teaching them after school, forging links with the community, and modifying the curriculum so it caters to these boys particular learning needs.”
As we walked around the different faculties, he pointed to the student art works and displays that covered the walls.
“They wouldn’t have been possible a few years ago” he gestured.
“They would have been torn down”.
Soon we meet the art teacher Lisa Faddoul. Robert explains how the school had had to convince particularly religious parents to let their sons learn music and take art classes. And the results speak for themselves. The school has won a host of literacy and numeracy awards.
The school’s foyer is festooned with mounted newspaper articles about the school and its students.
“Kids are taking pride in their school community and valuing the contribution of their teachers and the learning they can achieve within our walls, by gaining the skills that will allow them to make the transition of the community… they value themselves, they value the school, they value their community,” he said.
“We’ve built up the school from 275 to 400 students in 2009, we have the highest growth in school population for public schools in NSW and where other schools are losing kids to the private sector we are actually gaining.”
As we toured the woodwork rooms, the kids asked me if I’m staying for the breaking of the fast that evening. The school has invited the local community onto campus as part of the month of fasting that is Ramadan. I look at my watch - it’s almost 3pm. I was meant to be gone by eleven. Of course, I’d stay.
Hours later parents and students converge on the school laying out a feast in the playground that could feed an army. Mathew Fisher, the hospitality teacher, is happy to let them into his kitchen classrooms - for once he doesn’t have to do the cooking. In the middle of all the action is Principal Dib, apron strapped on, doling out food.
And after we’d eaten and the boys and their fathers were lining up to pray in the playground, I reluctantly left for the train station with a heart-warming story to tell.
Especially to the people who’d been so quick to tell me all the horror stories because, as I found, they’re now just history.