Teaching in Sudan: The Rewards, the Challenges, the Social

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.

Gatespotting...you just have to try it!

Perhaps it’s the lack of regular tourist “attractions” or social entertainment…but I have recently developed a rather strange liking for a new past-time: gatespotting. 

Ehhh, shinu?

What? 

In Sudan front entrances are typically marked by colourful, metal gates, bordering on the kitsch.

They feature an assortment of designs from flowers to birds, vines, hearts and other abstract shapes.

And there’s no doubt about it, the Sudanese are definitely gate proud. The general rule seems to be the louder the better.

In fact, I’ve yet to find an identical design…and trust me I’ve looked at quite a lot of gates.

They make for an incongruous splash of colour amidst the mud-brick houses of Ed Damer, which seem to have sprouted out of the brown, flat, dusty landscape.

These days I’ve developed the habit of getting off the bus a couple of stops early or detouring on my walk home from work just to discover new designs.

It’s also been a good way of discovering new corners of the neighbourhood, not to mention amusing the locals, who are not exactly in the habit of going out for a stroll just for the sake of it.

I practice my pidgeon Arabic with the curious kids who sometimes follow me, while turbaned men on depressed looking donkeys wave as I pass.

Everyone always asks where I am going. They can’t believe that I am just wandering without an actual destination in mind.

Could this new past-time take off or do I just have too much time on my hands? *Discuss*

In any case…here’s a selection of my discoveries…

Home sweet home... and the best gate of all! ;p

Handicrafts and heartache

Henna set

I was invited to go along to the Ed Damer branch of the Society for Progressing Women in Communities today by a local volunteer teacher at one of the girls’ schools in town.

Ahmed - a former university lecturer - has a rather endearing habit of calling me “Miss Kate” and regularly drops none-too-subtle hints about wanting to go to Australia.

Still, he makes a lively conversationalist on Sudanese political, social and education topics.

Ahmed explained that the society was established two-years ago and is funded by well-off local benefactors.

Essentially the society helps disadvantaged women set up small cottage industries to help generate extra income and improve the quality of their lives.

They run six-month educational courses for women covering topics including religion, health, Arabic, cooking and crafts.

A few purchases

To celebrate the program’s latest graduates, the centre was having an Open Day.

Ahmed tells me that most of the women come from poor backgrounds; many are illiterate or had been married young and were unable to complete their education.

After classes finished for the day one of the other teachers - who I will call Inayat accompanies me to the nearby centre.

In a Pied Piper kind of moment, I was almost mobbed by about 40 students along the way – one even offered to carry my bag.

Dressed identically in white headscarves and pale blue abayas, the girls fired an exhausting stream of disjointed questions at me, while the bolder amongst them grabbed my hand or linked their arm with mine.

As we walked Inayat introduced me to a young student I will call Aisha.

A shy and petite girl with big dimples and broad smile, Aisha tells me she wants to be a lawyer.

Crafty chooks

She looked about 15 years old, but in fact she is 20, having recently returned to her studies.

She had been married off at 15 and given birth to two children that died in infancy. 

Her husband had since left her and they no longer had contact.

Aisha said she had decided to finish her education so that she could go to university and get a good job to help improve her family’s situation.

After hearing her story I kept glancing over at her laughing with her friends.

As I watched her I couldn’t help thinking of all the times I had complained or fallen in a heap over something relatively trivial in comparison.

After arriving at the centre I am quickly ushered into a small room.

A colourful assortment of women’s handicrafts hang from the walls and spill across tables, including beaded vases, scarfs, baskets, bags, purses, children’s clothing and other items.

Sudan in still life

A diabetic-inducing array of sweets and biscuits were also on offer.

Outside a series of still life drawings and paintings depicting Sudanese village life hang on the wall.

Ahmed diligently provides detailed commentary about the pictures and individual artists.

By this time, the embroidered bags and colourful knit purses are making my bag addiction hard to suppress, but it’s hard to browse given the sheer volume of students crammed in and still shadowing my every move.

My eyes linger a moment too long on a small beaded purse and a slender woman in a lavender tobe steps forward and offers it as a gift.

Nurah, who speaks a smattering of English, is from Atbara and has three children.

I feel embarrassed to accept, but she insists and tells me to come back anytime.

Ahmed tells me that the women want to hold regular handicrafts markets in the area, but are waiting on some kind of official permission.

Crafty lovelies

He swiftly produces a notepad and pen and tells me to write my impressions of the centre and any suggestions I might have.

I’m still not sure, what benefit my insights can bring, but I admire their enthusiasm.

On my way out, the ladies load me up with small trays of sweet cakes and butterfly-shaped biscuits, which they are selling for 1 pound (17 cents) a piece.

I also stop by Nurah’s table again to buy a red-knitted purse that catches my eye.

Intayat, who has been patiently waiting to accompany me home, invites me for a guava juice at Ed Damer’s heavenly sweet shop El Bashayer.

She waves away my apology for delaying her return home and tells me that the time she passes with me is like no time at all.

I want to hug her.

Knitted purses

Later she invites me to join her for dinner at her in-laws house - a sparse, mud brick affair with a few beds, a goat pen and rusted household junk.

Almost every item in the kitchen drawers and shelves is caked in a thick layer of dirt.

I’m having an inner hygiene freak-out moment as it is before I even I spot the swarms of flies hovering over discarded meat bones and a half open watermelon.

Inayat's husband shows up later – a brusque man who completely ignores me at first and then strangely asks for my phone number in front of his wife.

His name means honest, she explains later by way of introduction/explanation.

“But he is not honest.”

The quiet bitterness in her comment catches me off-guard.

Bags, bags!!

Later, while I am helping her in the kitchen she reveals that her husband of 12 years is planning to marry a second wife at the end of the month.

She says that after the marriage he intends to live with his new wife and will visit her and the children only on occasion.

She concedes that although multiple marriages are part of Islamic custom, she cannot reconcile with his decision.

She says she keeps the deep sadness she feels inside hidden and tries to take solace in work and prayer.

Still, she tells me she is desperate to escape her unhappy marriage and would like to migrate to another Arabic speaking country, but is worried about losing her children.

“I really loved him and he loved me, I think, but now what is left?”

She stirs the potatoes and her question hangs in the air – unanswerable.