It's nearing
my three-month anniversary in Sudan and I just realised I hadn't written
anything yet about my impressions of teaching. So, here goes: the good, the bad,
the social and the sometimes frustrating. This could be a long one ...
In truth, teaching
in Sudan sometimes feels more like a social event than education.
There is an
unhurried pace to the day, and in-between lessons there are long stretches of
sitting around doing nothing or chatting over several cups of tea.
The school day
typically gets underway between 8.00-8.30am and after morning classes there is
a break for breakfast - an inordinately long interruption considering the
simple fare of fuul (bean stew) or tamiya (falafel) usually served up.
It can be a lively
affair, with discussions ranging from the married ladies' latest henna designs,
children, food, health ailments, lesson topics and personal problems.
Needless to say my marital status and future prospects also occupies a considerable part of breakfast time discussion.
Even when the bell does
finally sound, there is little urgency to get to the next class and it's not
uncommon for teachers to pour another cup of tea and continue their
conversation.
Pilot program
SVP volunteers were
last year placed at a number of secondary schools in regional areas as part of
a pilot program established by the Ministry of General Education.
The Sudanese
education system is characterised by a rigid adherence to curriculum, rote
learning and exam preparation, with English levels across the board remaining
low.
The program is
aimed at improving students' speaking and listening skills, as well as
encouraging more interactive teaching methods in schools.
We were asked to
establish regular conversational sessions or ‘English Clubs’ within schools as
a platform for students to develop and practice speaking in an informal environment,
as well as conduct teacher training workshops.
The Students' low levels, however, means even the most simple discussion topics are beyond their reach. Instead I tend to focus on simple grammar exercises, games and speaking activities to try and boost their confidence and encourage the everyday use of the language.
The four schools Rebecca
and I attend in Atbara and Ed Damer were selected at random and none were given
any advance warning about our arrival.
Further follow-up from the local ministry departments to date has been almost non-existent.
While the program certainly has merit, implementing such initiatives in any meaningful way would
conversely involve a dramatic shift away from the current syllabus as it
stands.
English language
instruction in Sudan is facilitated by ministry-issued SPINE textbooks -
and honestly it's hard to imagine a more uninspiring method of instruction.
Lessons are generally
devoid of any creativity and almost all class time is devoted to complicated
grammar explanations, with teachers doing all the talking and often translating
whole passages word for word into Arabic.
Exam cram
Exam results speak
volumes here in Sudan and may also impact on the amount of government funding
individual schools ultimately receive.
Intensive cram
sessions are held in the lead-up to exam periods in which teachers drill
students on coursework, right down to the order and nature of questions and
topics contained in the exam papers.
The English exam
does not contain any listening or speaking components, so while many students
might eventually manage to scrape through with a pass on paper, they will nonetheless
graduate well below the standards required for higher education or employment
in the private sector.
And while teachers
almost uniformly acknowledge the problems in the curriculum and the low level
of their students, few are willing to actually do anything about it.
The thinking being that if it’s not in the exam and not in the curriculum – it doesn’t matter.
As a result it is
an ongoing battle to get any meaningful class time with students and most
schools have informed me there is simply no space in the timetable available.
Rather, teachers
will randomly summons me without warning to a class to “say
something” or “teach literature”.
At the same time,
schools have completely unrealistic expectations and seem to think that
students will miraculously develop English fluency simply by being in proximity to the Khawaja (foreigner).
Good days, bad days
For all the challenges though, teaching in Sudan has its many joys and rewards, and there is little in the way of
severe behavioural problems that you might typically encounter in the West.
Aside from the possibility
of an early marriage while still in their teens, the female students in
particular have an endearing innocence and naivety about the world, with
exposure to popular culture limited at best.
I once struggled to
get a game of Who am I? going after my choice of Hollywood celebrities
and international sporting stars drew a complete blank with students.
On the advice of
another local teacher, I instead switched to the names of prophets and WWE
(wrestling) superstars, which proved much more successful.
I have assumed a
kind of celebrity status amongst my students and am often mobbed on arrival.
When walking
through the school grounds, several female students will invariably stick their
heads out their classroom window and shout my name by way of greeting.
Often groups of students will appear at my side, jostling for the nearest position next to me, while others grab my my hand spontaneously or compliment me on my fashion sense. Invariably they will tell me how much they love me and missed me even if it has been no more than a week since I saw them last.
Rather belatedly in life I have suddenly become the 'most popular girl in the school'.
During
pre-Independence Day celebrations at an Atbara boys’ school recently, a
Nuba Mountains student took to the microphone to welcome me to the event.
In a touching
speech delivered in near faultless English, he wished that I should “feel
at home in your second home: Sudan”.
Schools in Sudan
Schools here
typically comprise a series of low-lying concrete buildings laid out around a
central dusty courtyard (or sometimes a garden if they're lucky).
Modern facilities,
such as computers, projectors or visual aids are almost non-existent, with
outdated class textbooks the only resource for students and teachers alike.
Class sizes range
from anything between 30 to 70 or more students, with often four or five
students crowded around a single desk.
It is a constant
battle to be heard above the combined din of archaic fans, student chatter and
the scraping of metal chairs and desks.
One of the single
most depressing features of Sudanese schools however, is the total absence of any
of the students’ work on display or adorning the walls.
Corporal punishment
is openly practiced, with ex-soldiers typically employed as disciplinarians in
boys' schools.
Often dressed in
army fatigues and carrying wooden sticks or thick plastic tubing, these imposing men
are a ubiquitous site in the hallways as they patrol for wayward students.
When I asked some local teachers to help me with some disruptive classroom behaviour I was experiencing recently they laughed and told me to take a cane with me next time to beat the students.
Getting teacher
training workshops/and or brainstorming sessions off the ground has also proved
to be a futile exercise.
Many teachers
initially expressed an interest in the idea, however later when I tried to pin
them down, they came up with the same series of tired excuses, even acting as
though it was the first time they had ever heard me mention the idea.
In the end, I gave
up.
It's not entirely
their fault of course. There is not adequate time during school hours and
holding workshops outside these hours poses problems as most teachers are
women and have household duties and other social obligations to meet.
Many teachers are also working second jobs to make ends meet and simply don't have the time or energy for other things.
Any opportunities for professional development obviously take a backseat when you're just trying to get by.
Sweeping reforms
In the past
schooling consisted of 12 years of formal education - six in basic (primary),
three in middle school and three in secondary.
During colonial
rule the curriculum beyond primary school was based on British educational
models and the language of instruction at university was in English.
In 1990 the president masterminded a sweeping policy of Arabisation in the educational
system.
Under these
reforms the language of instruction changed from English to Arabic and an
Islamic curriculum was adopted by all schools, colleges and
universities.
Formal education
was reduced from 12 to 11 years and middle schools were reorganised, with students
now attending eight years in basic school and three in secondary.
After completing
their basic education students now sit entrance exams to compete for secondary school placements.
The best students
end up at so-called model schools, which are generally better resourced, while
those in the middle will attend standard government schools.
At the bottom of
the heap are the technical schools, where the worst performing students are
sent to learn trades and other menial jobs.
Another disturbing
aspect in Sudanese schools is the presence of teen brides, not always obvious as the decorative henna art typical for married ladies on the hands and feet is not permitted for students.
Although girls
typically continue their education after marriage, the drop-out rates
significantly increases if they fall pregnant.
However, it is the
male students who particularly struggle and many start working from an early
age to subsidise their family's meagre income.
In a trend right
across Sudan, girls are now outshining their male counterparts in academic
performance and significantly outnumber boys in higher education.
Making a difference
Even faced with the
staid nature of the current curriculum and lack of resources, there are
teachers who are willing to go the extra mile.
It’s not included
on my timetable, but I recently started teaching at an Ed Damer basic school
for boys, after being introduced to one of the English teacher’s at a dinner.
Ahmed still
reminisces fondly about an English teacher he had during his university days called
Kenny and his positive impact on the students' language abilities and morale.
The school where Ahmed teaches is the most obviously poor I have seen. One textbook is shared
between three to four students as there are no funds for more I'm told.
The students' uniforms have a tattered appearance, with buttons missing and holes in the trousers.
Their hair has a wild, dusty look.
Ahmed is one of the
few teachers that lets me have free rein in the classroom, nor does he
interrupt or translate my every word.
After this week’s
class he asked me to give a short career pep talk in private to the best
students as a way of driving home the importance of education and encouraging their
English studies. Ahmed will provide translation.
Several students
are marched in front of me while I frantically try to think of something inspiring
and eloquent to say. They stare down at their shoes awkwardly, but thankfully
overcome their shyness half way through, looking up to meet my gaze.
At the end some nod
their heads solemnly, while others utter a simple kwayys
(good) before shuffling out of the dirt-floored office. They look touchingly
comical in their flip-flops and oversized winter jackets.
As Ahmed explained
after they had left, all of the school's students live in the same impoverished area in
Ed Damer, with many facing a complex variety of family and social problems.
After school, boys
typically work in the fields or in other menial jobs. Little value is placed on
education as families are often illiterate themselves.
Ahmed himself sells clothes and other goods imported from Egypt to subsidise his teaching salary.
What the school
really needs is a student welfare officer or counsellor, he says, although given the
obvious shortfall in funds available, it would seem an almost impossible
dream.
Top of the class Mohammad,
he continues is a kind, but lonely boy, who has seen his father – who works in
Saudi Arabia - only once in the last four years.
His father has taken
a second wife and even when he is in town, prefers to spend his time with his
new family.
Ahmed says he
considers Mohammad like his own son and wants him to do well in his education
so that he can improve his situation.
However, given the lack of
resources and vision in his country’s educational system, it will be an uphill
struggle for Mohammad - and others like him - to break out of poverty and claim
a brighter future.
