Eid Mubarak

Every morning at about 5/5.30am 'C' and I lay awake (we have moved two of our beds outside), staring up at the starry pitch black night sky, waiting for the muezzin from the mosque opposite us to finish reciting the call for prayer so we may go back to sleep. This morning- the first day of Eid- the muezzin is incessant.  Our tranquil Doha neighbourhood is reverberating with the melodious chants of numerous muezzins, projected far and wide through the muffled loudspeakers pinned on each minaret. 

 As such soon after 6am I gave up on sleeping for the morning; now it is 7.30 am and the chants of ‘Allah akhbar’/ God is great, seem unlikely to relent anytime soon! There is another unusual sound that has pervaded Doha in the days preceding Eid: the ‘baaaaaaaaaing’ of sheep. As the anticipation for celebration grows, so Doha’s audible transformation into a farmyard accelerates. Each family in this well-off neighbourhood has purchased a sheep, to slaughter in honor of Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael in a gesture of faith to God (same as bible story). The Director General for Secondary Schools at the Ministry of Education kindly pressed 'C' and I to accept a sheep from him to slaughter for Eid. I told him that perhaps this year it was best for me to ‘watch and learn’ in preparation for next.

As Eid has grown nearer and nearer 'C' and I have rapidly become inundated by invitations to visit the homes of friends, teachers, ministers, students and strangers. The next four days will be crammed full of numerous prearranged engagements as well as, no doubt, numerous more unarranged visits. In true Sudanese style the hospitality rendered to us is not limited to a certain level of acquaintance but is apparently unconditional in its scope and depth. 

 Today (Friday) we only have one visit arranged; to Naglar’s home- a colleague of 'C's whose father is Professor of English at the University of Kordofan. On Saturday we are going to Ustaz Hussein Klayal’s home, head of English at Ishmael al-Welli School, for breakfast and the sacrificial sheep slaughtering, before briefly visiting the homes of a number of other members of staff at IAW. Sunday is designated to Said Ali school, with a visit to Ustaza Amna’s house for breakfast before more brief visits to the wider faculty. In the evening we have arranged to visit the home of Moussa, one of my students at IAW. Only on Monday do our engagements overlap(although this may be premature as we have been told to expect an invitation from the Ministry of Education for N.Kordofan and Director General for Secondary Schools), with 'C'and I able to choose only one of the two weddings that we have both been independently invited to. By association, it is 'C's invitation that has prevailed: it is a colleague of her’s getting married rather than, as in my case, the brother of the RE teacher.

With the help of the various teachers at our schools, 'C' and I feel as though we have settled very quickly into our jobs and daily routine. While there exists a daunting assumption among some staff that we are education professionals, capable of expertly invigorating the teaching environment, the general reaction has been a genuine enthusiasm that two native English speakers (well one and a half) are, for the foreseeable future, going to be working and living in El-Obeid. 

 This is no more true than for the ‘sister act’ of Amna Ramadan, Intizar and Nazrat at Said Ali school. Amna, Intizar and Nazrat, all English teachers at Said Ali, resemble a Sudanese ‘sex and the city’ style clique. Their exuberance, charisma and talkativeness, fuses with their constant togetherness to provide constant entertainment when I drop in for a late lunch, or after school visit. Wearing matching white ‘tops’ the three women would be indistinguishable if not for the different coloured long sleeve shirts worn underneath. In the past couple of weeks 'C' has become enthusiastically embraced into the ‘sister acts’ clique, receiving a showering of gifts- such as perfume, spices, tops, food- as testament to her membership. In addition she has become privy to the ‘giggly’ gossip sessions that usually overlook my, or any other man’s presence. 

 These conversations routinely indulge in a kinky, and unreserved content as explicit in topic as ‘how to seduce your new husband’. Five minutes in the presence of these women would surely banish those naive premonitions that Muslim Sudanese women are meek, submissive and strict adherents of patriarchal orthodoxies. While not making me feel quite so awkward as in the presence of the sister act, conversations with the male teachers at my schools have taken some equally interesting directions. Other than football and the weather (two areas I am very adept at conversing in), common themes have been my wedding day, the etiquette of kissing in marriage, babies, alcohol and the authenticity of WWE (wrestling). Like children trying to hold on to the image of Father Christmas, some of teachers at Ishmael al-Welli had a similarly difficult time in registering my pronouncement that WWE is fake.

  

At 8.30am the chants of ‘Allah akhbar’ are still in full swing as  'C' and I are getting ready for our first Eid visit!

Early Thoughts (or grumbles...)

Material primitivity, alien cultures and even general uncleanliness are to be expected, even adapted to when living in Sudan for a year. Cockroach ('sarscore') infestation on the other hand is perhaps beyond my scope for change. The early days in our new house have been draining; our status continuously pending as Adil- the carnal minded (!) property manager- and his cohort of labourers never seem to quite grasp the scale of our (or as I tell anyone who will listen 'Christin's') cockroach anxiety. In true Sudanese style time has stagnated. Numerous exchanges of 'tamam' (OK/ good), handshakes and promises of tomorrow have never quite been translated, or communicated into a firm plan of action. As such what might take one day in the UK becomes a project for the next- 'Inshallah' (God Willing)- in Sudan.

 Almost a week after ripping out our kitchen, the makeshift walls, counters and appliances remains scattered over our roof terrace baking, and inevitably disintegrating, in the forty degree sun.  Our flat is in many ways luxurious. Situated in the affluent 'Doha' neighbourhood, our private compound is lined with orange, lime and 'gawafa' trees. The compounds apartments are habitated by El Obeid's car driving and businesss owning middle class. The flat allocated to us is perhaps the envy of all other residents. An expansive living area, kitchen ('inshallah') and three double bedrooms combine with the 13x13m roof terrace to justify the sizeable $400 pm rent. Nevertheless with the commencement of our teaching commitments we have become increasingly detatched from the inadequacies of our flat. From a Sudanese perspective this naturally means that the barrage of grumbles from two pernickety khawaja’s has receded.

 Arriving 15 minutes late for my first English class at Ishmael al-Welli, a lack of punctuality was put down to a ‘world of cultural difference’ (Chapter 8 of SPINE text book 6 for grade 3 students). According to SPINE (Sudan Practical Integrated National English)- the rather mundane and not so integrated text book for school English learners-: “ In Sudan these is no hard and fast rule about punctuality. In Britain however, you should not come earlier than the agreed time and you no arrive more than 15 minutes late”. Indeed, Ustaz (Teacher) Hussein / Klayal reflected on my tardiness to the students as part of a gradual absorption of Sudanese cultural norms: in reality I got lost. 

 Ustaz Hussein, known as Klayal (last name) at school due to the prevalence of Hussein’s among the teaching staff, is one the more charismatic and able English speakers. The students clearly respect and admire him. Yet, by strictly abiding to the SPINE text (something I do not blame him for- as will be touched upon later) even Ustaz Hussein is guilty of constructing a  teacher dominant classroom, where teacher instruction is only interrupted by the odd trivial question (eg. “What continent is South Africa in?”) and monotonous grammar exercises that follow the monolithic blocks of text constituting each SPINE chapter. Therefore, somewhat reassuringly, there is an obvious void for me to fill. After Eid I will receive my own timetable of year 1 and 2 classes, providing me with the opportunity to develop student led classes that nurture speaking ability, in turn making English learning more accessible and less abstract. This is obviously going to be a massive challenge given class sizes and, partly by consequence, the passive tradition of Sudanese schooling

 As my brief experiences at Ishmael al-Welli and Abdul Karim Hussein Jaffa schools have demonstrated, there is a clear difference in learning mentality between boys and girls. Spending a couple of afternoons at the all girl Said Ali school (where 'C' teaches), I was enthusiastically crowded by a horde of students scrambling to introduce themselves.  Five girls even ventured into the English staff room, spending an hour questioning me on topics as unrelated as my favourite music to position on gun ownership. While by no means cold or unwelcoming , the boys hold a far more nonchalant attitude towards the new khawaja teacher; suggesting that however exciting school may be there is always somewhere better to be. Getting  the boys  to speak is a challenge. A passive system of teaching, where students are merely a teacher’s audience, definitely does not help overcome this challenge.

 The Petronas debate competition has existed in Sudanese schools for 9 years. Yet despite its longevity, the complete lack of coordination and coherence in such simple tasks as arranging a common debate topic and venue is symbolic of a general malaise that underpins Sudanese attitudes towards matters of organization. A further analysis of Sudanese ‘cultural norms’ would probably serve to introduce one not only to the concept of ‘Sudan time’, but also to non-existence of notions such as efficiency, effectiveness and productivity in the Sudanese psyche! Logistical requirements and organizational needs are simply a matter of God’s will resting on the rather fate tempting mantra of ‘Inshallah’.

 With our timetables laid bare in the present pre-Eid dystopia, 'C' and I have seen the debate competition (which starts on Saturday) as an opportunity to experiment with the student-led, speaking-centric model of English that we are seeking to introduce over the next year. Taking year 3 debating classes (the last year of schooling) at Ishmael al-Welli and Abdul Karim, the inadequacies of existing English teaching were made obvious by the students inability to even semi-fluently introduce themselves, despite numerous years of English. The teachers themselves cannot be blamed for this.

 Peer reviewing Ustaz Bashir and Salah at Abdul Karim, I commented upon the overly teacher-led nature of their classes, highlighting how there was little opportunity for student to really practice with, and engage in spoken English. Ustaz Bashir gave a swift retort to my lightly worded criticism, suggesting that large classese- the year 3class at Abdul Karim had 75 students- (an obstacle but not insurmountable) and the government curriculum prevented students from, in his words, learning English as an ‘accessible spoken language’. Teachers are under pressure to prepare their students for an exam regime centred on assessing one’s ability to identify the ‘gerund’ or read a large block of abstract text rather than actually utilize the English language. Fostering an able and assured English speaking youth may therefore paradoxically require the foregoing of achievement in the present exam system.

 Without doubt the final mention in this first blog should go to Abdul Karim’s resident disciplinarian. Sat under a lofty tree in the school’s courtyard, I was kept amused for much of my post-breakfast (10am is school breakfeast and is the main meal of the day. School starts at 8am) food-coma watching the stern faced, grey moustached ex-Sudanese army soldier chase numerous boys around the school. No younger than 75, the man is one of many ex-military members employed as ‘disciplinarians’ in Sudanese boys secondary schools.

 The boys’ crime had been drinking directly from the hose, rather than the large clay pots (zeers) used to store drinking water. Dressed in full military uniform and languishing from an obvious limp, the ex-soldier waved his stick furiously as the boys repeatedly evaded his advances. Taunting him through a game of ‘chicken’ with the water hose , the old man’s fury seemed to be a source of considerable amusement for the students. Eventually the disciplinarian caught two of the younger boys, exerting five swift blows to their thighs with his wooden stick. The productiveness of beating thus seems rather questionable, as throughout the whole affair my sympathies lay heavily on the side of the old, taunted ‘beater’ rather   than the mischievous youngsters!