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.

Medically challenged

Ed Damer Hospital

Not to exaggerate my near demise in the north of Sudan ... but let's just say it's been a long eight days.

It started out as a typical upset belly and I dismissed it as being something I ate.

Over the next few days I was stuck in bed and unable to attend classes due to severe stomach cramps that made it almost impossible to stand up straight.

I would shuffle back and forth between the sitting room and the kitchen, doubled over and hair askew like a housewife gone to hell.

 ... I lost my appetite and my momentum.

The neighbours stopped by with cups of mint tea and kindness, but still it didn't pass.

I began research possible causes online, which bought up a long list of possible bacterial suspects, including the rather nasty sounding Helicobacter Pylori bug.

When I complained about my symptoms to my friend Rahel she announced she was taking me to hospital.

I'm not going to lie, an African hospital immediately inspired horror images of dingy, roach infested wards.

This image wasn't helped any either when Rahel informed me that the doctors at the hospital were not at the best time of their careers.

In truth, it looked as though people had turned up at the hospital for a social outing rather than because it was medically necessary.

White turbanned men squatted in the shade drinking tea and chatting, while on the other side women in traditional tobes greeted each other in typical Sudanese style - tapping the shoulder and then shaking hands.  

The women's colourful clothing adding a splash of colour to the otherwise drab surroundings and dirt-caked hospital walls.

We entered a nondescript room and Rahel translated my symptoms to a young, female doctor and without any further examination or consultation, she ordered a round of blood tests.

This involved me sticking my bare arm through a small slot in a window and a nurse stabbing at my forearm.

I squirmed and yelped while the lady manhandled my veins. Embarrassingly a line of people waiting behind were there to witness my lack of bravado.

Afterwards, Arm Stabber cackled loudly and suggested a tour of the hospital while we waited for the results

“Who is she?”

“Where did you find her?” , came the incredulous whispered enquiries as we passed through the corridor.

The hospital grounds comprise of the mud-splattered main building, thankfully cheered up by a small front garden lined by palm trees. 

We find a cafeteria located to the back and a dusty outdoor waiting area running parallel to the entrance.

It wasn't immediately clear, however, what people were waiting for exactly, as no-one seemed to be in pain or even in any particular hurry.

Women lazed on benches or on the ground, while nearby a family picniced together on a straw mat.

We snuck in a back door that was marked 'No Entry' and were greeted by a towering guard, who immediatley took on the role as tour guide.

Dressed in a white turban and flowing jellabiya, he had an imposing presence and a booming voice that echoed down the empty corridors.

Setting a brisk pace, the guard pointed out the specialists' offices, as well as the surgical and maternity wards.

The equipment and procedures were somewhat old-fashioned and haphazard, but the hospital itself was clean and well-kept in sharp contrast to my earlier visions.

Half-way down the hall the guard suddenly lowered his voice and quietly enquired about my marital status to Rahel.

When she translated for me, he roared with laughter, giving me a hearty whack on the back that in my newly emaciated state nearly sent me flying down the corridor.

He finished the whirlwind tour by parading me in front of a group of exhausted looking new mums, apparently unperturbed that one was in labour on the bed, before giving me another hearty whack on the back in farewell.

My tests were negative for malaria and typhoid and when I return to the patient's room with my results, I find two new doctors inside.

One says it could be the helicopter err ... helicopbacter thing, while the lady doctor declares it's gastro and promptly leaves the room.

Again there was no examination, although one advises me to drink milk - specifically cold milk and only in the evening.

In the end they send me home with a packet of meds that cost 2 pounds (about 35 euro cents).

Two days later I was at the house of Fadia and her husband Abdul Raheem for lunch only to collapse immediately following the meal.

It was at this point that I was truly grateful for the Sudanese custom of having beds, rather than couches in the living room.

Poor Fadia had to suddenly contend with a groaning, immobile house guest that kept dozing off.

She covered me with a sheet and did her best to take my mind off things with mint tea and discussions about literature.

Instead of the usual handshake, I hug Fadia goodbye as I'm leaving - partly because I'm having standing up straight and partly because I'm so grateful for her mothering and kindness.

The following day Fadia and Abdul Raheem pick me up and take me to a private clinic in Atbara that was recommended by another SVP volunteer.

Ambulance at the ready

The clinic is run by the softly spoken Dr Wadia, the former Dean of the Medical faculty at Camboni College, who is also a supporter of SVP. 

His friend Dr Safiah, who is the current Dean, is also there.

They both speak near flawless English and have a friendly and reassuring approach - although I start to have a nagging concern that my 'condition' isn't nearly serious enough to warrant the attention of two medical deans.

They perform an examination, as well as a series of tests - which all come back negative - and refer me for an ultrasound.

Before leaving the clinic, I knock on Dr Wadia's office door to thank him and enquire about payment.

He looks up from his notes briefly and raises his hand, saying simply: “You are our guest” .

I am both humbled and touched by Dr Wadia's kindness. In fact, his gesture leaves me lost for words at the time.

I can't help thinking how unlikely a similar gesture would be repeated in Australia or other parts of the Western world.

Likewise, Fadia and Abdul Raheem gave up hours of their time to make the 24km round-trip from Ed Damer twice in one day - first to the clinic and then back again in the evening where we waited hours for an ultrasound appointment.

I can honestly say I have never experienced such genuine kindness, hospitality and generosity anywhere else in the world. It is a rare quality and a beautiful aspect of life in Sudan.

Oh...and the diagnosis in the end - gastritis brought on by the anti-malarial meds I was taking.

Turns out news of my medical woes has also been doing the local gossip rounds, with teachers at the various schools Rebecca and I teach at already well-informed about my diagnosis well before I returned to work.