Invitation to visit a sheikh

The sheikh is sleeping when we arrive ...

We’ve come from Ed Damer, travelling in the back cabin of one of the garishly decorated white Toyotas that ply the village routes around the region. They look a bit like a version of the Australian police paddy wagon, but with more bling. 

Decorative village transport

Everything from the body of the car to the mud flaps is embellished with an ornate design or decoration, while on the bonnet something resembling a feather duster sticks upright.

At an unplanned stop along the way, the men suddenly disembark en masse and head for a distant, dusty field, already crowded by a ghostly gathering of men in white jellabiyahs. It turns out there’s a funeral in progress and as such the men, who are all familiar with the deceased, have gone to pay their respects. It’s another striking example of the interconnectedness of life here.

The sheikh’s village is called El-Hasaiya, located about 40mins from Ed Damer. As we leave the town limits, I wonder why I’ve never explored further afield before. The area has a tranquil feel, with pint-sized mud-brick villages, tempered by clusters of tall date palms and green vegetation. 

Outside view of the sheikh's house

While the sheikh is taking his rest, his wife Aisha takes us on a tour of the village. The sheikh’s house is a large, neat complex with three separate buildings and several smaller open air structures, surrounding a spacious courtyard. A number of people are taking shelter from the sun, with some stretched out on straw mats. We enter a cool, darkened room, with a number of open archways. Around 10 elderly women, resting on threadbare mattresses inside, rise slowly to greet us. Aisha explains her husband is providing basic shelter for the women, many of whom are destitute or suffering illness.

We leave behind the calm order inside the complex for the full force of the blaring sun outside. People stop to greet us as we make our way along a wide dusty street until we reach a striking conical shrine - essentially the centrepiece of the village - which houses the body of the former sheikh. 

The Sufi shrine at El-Hasaiya

The inside is empty save for a few trapped pigeons flapping frantically against the wall and the covered tomb of the sheikh surrounded by red sand. A few people filter in and out and press their hands against the tomb, reciting a mumbled prayer.  

Our companion Ja’maal asks us to come and pray with him. He closes his eyes, and spreading his arms wide, begins reciting his prayers. Not sure about the protocol of such a situation, I shuffle closer to the tomb and try to appear dignified and respectful. Ja’maal scoops up some sand and pours it into my outstretched hand. It’s a sacred offering I’m told and I must carry it with me, even back to Australia. I’m wondering how to manage such a task, having only brought with me a small bag, containing no pockets. As we continue on with our village tour, I find myself juggling the sandy offering every time someone stops to shake our hand. 

Next up we visit the local maternity clinic, which is funded by the sheikh. Lines of women wait patiently outside. Facilities are basic, but there’s a doctor on duty, who tells us that he returned to his home village from Khartoum to work in the clinic. He says that before the clinic opened many women gave birth in their houses or died as a result of complications during pregnancy. 

Finally we're seated in a cool, modest room with dirt floors, our companions a small group of shy, giggling teenage girls. People wander in and out to greet us and shake our hand before we are served with this enormous breakfast (pictured left).

A short pause after eating and it seems the sheikh is ready to meet us.

It’s been a couple of months since we last saw the sheikh, who we met in January at Mawlid celebrations in Ed Damer, marking the Prophet Mohammad’s birthday.

As part of the occasion, several large tents were set up in a vacant dusty field on the edge of town – each one dedicated to a particular sub-branch or tariqats. Devotional music, drumming and ritualised chanting emanates as we arrive.

The Sufi gathering has a carnival-like atmosphere, with followers displaying a rather eccentric and colourful approach to worship. 

Mawlid celebrations, Ed Damer

Some branches of Islam forbid the commemoration of Mawlid, but the Sufis embrace this celebration with a zeal and passion that is hard to ignore. There is an intensity, but also an infectious exuberance about this ceremony - both sacred and joyous.

The dress code seems to be anything goes, with dreadlocked Sufis in green-elf like suits and pointy hats, flared patch-work skirts, as well as garish leopard-print outfits.

Inside the tents, men rock from side to side in unison, repeating a hypnotic religious chant, while others careen about the ‘dancefloor’ with wild abandon or leap gracefully in the air on one spot.

Makeshift sweets stalls sell the sugary Mawlid treats, including bizarre dyed pink candies in the shape of birds and men on horseback.

In a striking gesture of generosity, fleet-footed men in white jellabiyahs and skullcaps move throughout the crowd delivering large bowls of rice and meat. Strangers promptly squat on the ground together to share a meal, followed by plastic cups of piping hot milk tea.

We receive a warm welcome as we move from tent to tent, with plates of dates, candies and soft drinks magically appearing before us wherever we go. 

Inside one of the tents we meet the sheikh, who is sitting resplendent receiving his followers. One-by-onethey  crouch before him and kiss the back of his hand. After a brief introduction we are immediately invited to see his village and so that’s how we came to be in El-Hasaiya on this scorching day.

The sheikh tends to a Rashaida woman complaining of back pain

As we re-enter the sheikh’s compound, we find a line of people extending from a small room at the side of the house. 

The portly sheikh, who is sat on a rope-strung bed receiving his followers, welcomes us to sit inside and watch the process. 

The elderly and the infirm shuffle in. Some of them are unable to walk freely and have to be assisted by relatives. 

Women hand over their sick babies, while others enter grimmacing in pain or baring disabled limbs.

Although, his consultations are brief, the sheikh is kindly and attentive, offering candies for the children and words of comfort as he dispenses 'remedies' to the sick. 

Using a black rubber whip, he lightly taps the point of pain, while murmuring a hurried prayer. 

I watch in fascination as he presses his hands to the head of a boy complaining of a severe migraine and spits his breath into a water bottle before handing it back to an elderly women suffering abdominal pain. 

As each one leaves a few crumpled notes at the sheikh’s feet or under his pillow, he hands over a small packages of bakhoor (incense) to be burnt in the home as a sort of cleansing ritual. 

At one point, a troupe of young men enter, dressed identically in jellabiyahs and skullcaps. They spread their hands in front of them and without fanfare their leader begins to chant in deep, resonating tones, filling the room, not only with the beauty of his voice, but with the remarkable conviction of his belief.

A troupe of men perform devotional chanting

Once finishing their performance, the men elegantly kneel in front of him and kiss his hand, before immediately taking their leave.

I’ve been suffering neck pain over the last couple of weeks and I’m keen to try out this Sufi-style of healing. 

I shuffle forward and crouch before the sheikh while Ja’maal translates my complaint. The sheikh presses his hand to each side of my neck, before lightly flicking me with the point of his whip on each shoulder. It’s over in a matter of minutes and I stuff a five pound note under the pillow in front.

I don’t know whether it’s coincidence or faith, but the next day my neck pain is completely gone.

Gatecrashing the Ed Damer boys’ club

Rooftop shisha den in Ed Damer.

Since returning to Ed Damer after an almost two-month absence, the time has passed in a whirlwind of social events, lunches, invitations and even a random wedding. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath.

While my visiting my friend Inayat today, we were joined by my teaching colleague Ahmed, who is also her relative.

As we sit down to a light meal together, Ahmed urges me to eat quickly as he wants to invite me for a coffee. I was slightly intrigued, but assumed he was bringing me to his family home as Ed Damer isn’t exactly over-run with cafes and the tea ladies that frequent the souq are off-limits to women.

Bidding Inayat farewell, we take off at a brisk pace towards the centre, with Ahmed’s small talk at almost the same speed. I’m having trouble keeping up on both fronts when we enter the gate of a nondescript white building. Ahmed pauses finally and explains that we are entering a Naadi (men’s sports club). He tells me that although Sudanese ladies cannot enter, it's no problem for me since I am a foreign woman. 

Although I’m hesitant, the idea of entering a forbidden zone is somewhat beguiling.

We climb a narrow, darkened staircase, arriving at a rooftop 'bar' serving juice and the usual assortment of tea and coffee. The only other women are two Ethiopian tea ladies. Men sit in large groups, smoking shisha and chatting. Inside a small adjoining hut, football blares from two TV screens.

It's decidedly downmarket; the outside bar furnished with little more than a haphazard assortment of plastic chairs, low tables and large, glass shisha pipes, positioned on the grimy floor next to each group.

Ahmed points out other neighbouring shisha dens from the balcony, explaining that such clubs operate under semi-legitimacy, as smoking shisha is periodically banned by the government and is still frowned upon by some sections of society.

The other men almost fall off their chairs when I enter. In fact, for a moment, I think some of them actually will. They look like they couldn't be any more surprised if a green alien had suddenly sat down in their midst and ordered coffee. Although it's not overcrowded, I cannot remember ever feeling more conspicuous or scrutinised than I do at this point.

None of the men make any pretence to hide their stares and when I move closer to the balcony for a moment to see the view, I feel every pair of eyes follow me.

Ahmed is one of the few male colleagues and acquaintances that I have met in Ed Damer that I feel comfortable around, with others tending towards veiled advances. In fact, if anything, he behaves with an almost exaggerated politeness and formality towards me.

I wonder aloud whether my reputation in Ed Damer will survive in tact after being seen in a place of such ill-repute, but he waves away my concerns.

“Anyway, you are a foreign woman. You shouldn’t mind for such things. You are quite free”, he says.

Foreign or not, I have to admit that it feels good to throw off the shackles of what I ‘should’ or shouldn’t be doing and, despite the intensity of attention I’m attracting, being in that half-forbidden place, suddenly feels liberating.

I tune out the eyes boring into me and start to enjoy the atmosphere around me. Although it is still light, the sun is beginning to dip below the roof tops and somewhere in the distance the guttural evening call to prayer rumbles to life. A mute Palestinian man with matted dreadlocks passes the tables, begging money with a bizarre imitation of a sideshow clown. As part of the act he tweaks his nose, earlobes and nipples, emitting a high-pitched squeak as he does so. I'm rather relieved when he moves on to the next group.

At the same moment, Ahmed conversely bemoans the lack of entertainment options in Ed Damer, saying the shisha bars are among the few social outlets available.

Although he’s a regular at the bars, Ahmed tells me it is the first time he has brought company. He says his close friends don’t approve of shisha smoking and that he prefers to sit alone from the other clientele – a rough and tumble mix of construction workers, desert nomads and camel traders.

Ahmed orders jebana for me - the sweetly spiced coffee sipped from tiny cups - and settles back in his chair to smoke.

“Since you are my friend, I want to speak freely to you, to tell you about my problems,” he begins by way of conversation, before launching into a detailed explanation of his latest marital woes.

Ahmed’s first wife and love of his life died in childbirth and he later remarried a second time to a woman he had three children with and is now divorced. He has another two children with his current wife.

Coffee with a lot of attention

Having recently reconciled with his second wife, he has decided he wants to remarry her so that he can bring his children together under the same roof. This news infuriated his third wife, who promptly packed her bags and moved back into her mother’s house with their children. He has not seen or spoken to her or the children in three weeks. 

He tells me he is shocked by her “bad” behaviour and angry reaction and asks for my opinion on the matter. As I explain to him that for most women the idea of sharing a husband is an untenable situation, regardless of what religion or tradition dictates, he listens intently, ruminating on my words as though I am offering him the holy grail of a happy home and marriage. But I wonder if he can really be that clueless about his wife’s feelings.

In any case, Ahmed tells me he still wants to forge ahead with plans to remarry in June, even if his idea to bring his families 'together' means the destruction of his existing relationship.

The story only adds to my general confusion about the nature of Sudanese relationships, which seem to be conducted at turns with an idealistic romanticism and a staggering business-like impersonality.

I sip the last of the coffee, feeling the delicious hot liquid go straight to my head, like an electric jolt. We head back down the same darkened staircase, leaving behind the men's stares and the billowing, perfumed smoke. On our way out we pass a uniformed guard asleep on a rope bed near the front gate still clutching a half-full cup of shai in his hand ...

Those sunsets, sunsets ...

Even as I stood alone on my balcony in the fading light, there was no denying the intoxicating romance of the scene before me.

The muezzin sounded the evening call to prayer as the sun slipped behind the black silhouettes of the date palms lining the River Nile.

The sky lit up in a magnificent multi-hued explosion of pink and orange, reaching a riotous crescendo before disappearing altogether.

What Ed Damer lacks in attractions, it more than makes up for with some of the most jaw-dropping daily sunset displays I've ever seen.

I am suddenly reminded of a refrain from well-known Australian band Powderfinger’s hit track 'Sunsets'.

“Sunrise building a reprise in my heart

Regret tight around my chest plays its part

Watching the sunset, sunset over the beaches”

I never really thought of Sudan as being a place of romance. With its dusty, daily realities it seems more like a haven for the romantically bruised in self-imposed exile.

For all the relentless obsession about marriage, there is a detached reserve to relationships here, exacerbated perhaps by current economic hardships.

With many men now working away from home in Gulf countries, their wives remain behind as virtual single mothers and many will not see their husbands for months at a time, even years.

Even couples not separated by distance seem to live almost totally separate lives.

My friend's sister, currently recuperating with her family in Ed Damer after giving birth to a new son, informed me recently her husband is coming from Khartoum in the next days to visit “the baby” for the first time. Noticing her curious omission of “us”, I add quickly “And you; He's coming to see you too”. She stares at me blankly and shrugs her shoulders. 

Some Sudanese men approach the concept with an almost teenage naivety, often expressed by spontaneous marriage proposals and poetic declarations of love in the first meeting.

Strict social segregation and a matter-of-fact approach to marriage means there is less opportunity for relationships to develop naturally. 

When it comes to marriage, there are also vastly different attitudes and cultural norms. While in the West we may idealise the concept of romantic love and finding 'The One', in Sudan this is often considered secondary to financial security and family duty.

Scratch beneath the surface, however, and Sudan does in fact have its own romantic side.

It’s there in the hidden love affairs, kept secret even from closest friends and family; it’s there in a stolen moment in a public place, the press of a handshake, slightly longer than is usual, the young couples sat at the back of a restaurant staring coyly into each other’s eyes – their fruit juices remaining forgotten in front of them.

Watching the magical Ed Damer sunsets have another quality: the seductive romance of home as viewed from far away.

I think of another time and another place, watching the sun set over a beach before slipping effortlessly behind the horizon.

I wonder what home will be like when I go back. Perhaps it will be just like falling in love all over again …

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.