Questions for a Saturday class

A woman in Damietta wants to start a Saturday drawing class for children in the room above her family's shop. She has the room, the tables and the paper. What she does not have yet are answers to a few plain questions, and those will matter more than the paper.

Who is it for, exactly? Not children in general, but which children, and whose parents. What is it for: two quiet hours for the mothers, or a change in how a ten-year-old looks at the street? What will be the difficult part, the one she would rather not think about yet? In three months, how will she know whether it is working?

Those questions are about the class. The next ones are about her.

Is there one skill that, if she learned it, would make the whole thing easier? Would it go further if she asked for help, even if that meant the class stopped being only hers and the credit was shared? Does it matter enough to be worth the Saturdays? What is she afraid of, and is the fear quietly making the decisions?

And the sharpest of them: if she stopped after a term, would anyone miss it? Not politely, but properly, a child asking on a Saturday morning why the door upstairs is locked.

Most projects begin without anyone asking these, because asking feels slower than starting. The first questions can usually be answered with a little thought. The last ones need honesty, and they are the ones that decide whether the room ever becomes more than tables and paper.