"La shukran al-awajib".

“No thanks for duty”.

“La shukran al-awajib”, Ishmael pronounces as he resolutely brushes away my outstretched hand of money, determined that he will pay for my groceries, and the additional 4kg of mangoes and bananas he has directed the grocer to add to our bags.

This is the same grocer that each week lavishes us with discounted and ‘complementary’ vegetables, yet decisively deflects my thanks and gratitude with that same understated, unassuming utterance “la shukran al-awajib”, or ‘no thanks for duty’.

 This Arabic dictum always curtails my attempts to express gratitude, as though my feelings of appreciation and sense of indebtedness are unnecessary, even insulting to those who see serving me as their duty. ‘La shukran al-awajib’ is a sacred, almost unbreakable maxim of extreme hospitality.

 In most societies the traveller is equivalent to a ‘visitor’. Hospitality is extended only so far as contractual obligations compel; only so long as the pleasure of the host persists. The purpose of serving a visitor is essentially economic. Value derives from exploiting the visitor’s consumer mentality.

 It follows that travellers become engulfed by a tourist industry exclusively preoccupied with enticing them to buy into certain products or services. One is not compelled to be hospitable. Rather, the extension of hospitality is dependent upon the intrinsic, material value that a host may receive from choosing to be so.

 In contrast the Sudanese host sees it as a moral responsibility to be hospitable. The notion that this hospitality should be reciprocated, let alone paid for, is not merely alien but damn right rude. In this vein the traveller is equivalent to a ‘guest’ for whom every effort should be made to make life that little less burdensome, that little less costly.

 A visit to the market in Sudan is characteristic of this approach. In virtually every other country I have visited (with the exception of Pakistan) it is inevitable that I, as a white foreigner, will be charged a significantly inflated price, however vigorously I barter. Predatory pricing is common practice. Market vendors are advantageous, viewing travellers less as guests to be welcomed and cherished, than naïve and credulous fools primed for exploitation.

The Souq

 In Sudan the opposite is true: as a white foreigner I will (often) be charged less than the going rate. In fact it is commonplace for Sudanese friends to receive discounts when I accompany them to the market.

Tourism is non-existent in Sudan. Selfishly I hope this remains the case (although this is not to say that the lack of tourism investment and initiative is not a grievous missed opportunity). The total absence of a tourist industry, allows the traveller to enter into a far deeper, more personal relationship with Sudan and Sudanese people. Unfettered by the dollar signs which equate each traveller with financial gain, Sudanese people welcome you into their homes; not merely allowing but urging you to experience life from their perspective.

Mother of Ashes.

  Our trip to the village of Um-Ramad was testament to this spirit of generosity and sincerity. Meaning ‘mother of ashes’, the name Um-Ramad allegedly symbolizes the burnt coals of the ceaseless cooking provided by female villagers to passing travellers. As the duration of the journey from El Obeid to Um-Ramad passed 90 minutes - confirming that the 30 minute approximation had indeed been calculated by Sudanese valuations- and the heady smell of leaking oil was inducing delirium, this promise of food was alluring.

 Roughly an hour and a half to the West of El Obeid, our journey to Um-Ramad took us along dusty tracks linking the little known, oasis like villages of the Southern reaches of the Sahel. Heading in the opposite direction were nomadic camel and cow herds, aiming to reach Souq al-Nagar (the Camel Market) on the Western fringes of El Obeid, in time for the Saturday market. After journeying by foot from South Darfur for over three months, livestock in tow, the final destination must have seemed elusive, despite its relative proximity.

  At the journey’s half-way point the vast flatness of the landscape was briefly interrupted by the small mound of the Greater Nile oil pipeline, stretching from South Sudan, and the war-torn border regions, to Port Sudan on the Red Sea Coast. Crossing the pipeline I was struck by the stark dichotomy of this simple and bare region of scattered subsistence villages against the international significance of the oil pipeline. Soon enough the vast emptiness unravelled, revealing a few customary mud and stick houses that marked the near edge of Um-Ramad.

Um-Ramad

 Arriving in Um-Ramad, we were met by Mohammed , a colleague and friend who had kindly invited us to come to his home.  Quite possibly slaughtering a sheep to mark our coming, Mohammed and his family had gone all out to meet his village’s reputation for unparalleled hospitality. Joining us for breakfast were numerous cousins and neighbours, eager to both greet us and underline that we were free to visit their homes at any time. Exclamations of ‘Marhab’ (welcome) echoed from every direction and with each new visitor.

 After breakfast Mohammed and some male members of his family gave us a tour of the village. Considering its size, Um-Ramad has a large Souq selling many locally sourced products such as simsim (sesame) oil, cackadai (hibiscus), dried bamir (okra) and tomatoes. During the week the majority of these traders switch their operations to the larger market of Souq Wadi Keifa in El Obeid. Our progress negotiating the Saturday market crowd was slow; made yet slower by the relentless handshakes and small talk customary of Sudanese social etiquette.

 Escaping the throngs, Mohammed led us to the Western perimeter of the village and the ‘animal reservoir’ used by nomadic herds. Recuperating around the dwindling pool was a sizeable caravan of camels- perhaps 50 in number- owned by the Shanabla tribe. Understandably, the Shanabla ‘herder’ and his son, were initially reluctant to let us linger around their camels.

 Nowadays most of these nomadic tribes carry guns as a means to ensure the safety of their livestock in the increasingly lawless regions of West Kordofan, South Kordofan and Darfur. The sizeable risks they face inevitably encourages a mind-set of suspicion towards strangers. Nevertheless, once our Sudanese company had established that their tribes actually shared an amicable relationship with the Shanabla, the man’s demeanour softened considerably, such that he even ushered his son into our photo-shot!

'Shanabla' Camels

 Before leaving Um-Ramad, the women of the village had gathered to dance and wail us goodbye. Unfortunately Adam, our driver and security escort, was growing restless, worried that if we did not leave soon his lightless 1982 Toyota Pickup truck would not be able to navigate us home. Thus, loaded with us as well as 10 villagers looking to hitch a lift to El Obeid, the pick-up truck hastily started up again.

Romance in the desert

 Our race against the sun was a close run thing; we just about made it to the tarmac road, where we could hitch a lift back to town, before the darkness completely enveloped us. As a final gesture of generosity from the ‘Mother of Ashes’, the villagers handed us a sack of tomatoes; inevitably far in excess of what we could consume.

Conditional or unconditional hospitality?

Every effort is made to impress. Not only are we served up a feast at each new home  we visit, but our hosts, perhaps conscious of the overwhelmingly negative image of Sudan shown to the world, seem determined to reassure us that there is a kind, generous, welcoming, tolerant, rich, vibrant, traditional and youthful side of Sudan snubbed by the Western media.

 No doubt they have a point. Yet, the cynical side of me still wonders whether this hospitality would be so ubiquitous of our time in Sudan if I was not a (non-Jewish/ Israeli) ‘Khawaja’…. I am convinced that hospitality in Sudan is not always as unconditional as Sudanese people, and for that matter some non-Sudanese observers, like to think.

The kindness and generosity rendered to us embodies an unspoken acknowledgment of the Khawja’s pre-eminence; an internalization of an implicit racial hierarchy that frames the white man as the VIP. If one views unconditional hospitality as ‘supporting the transition of newcomers into the community without conditions’, I am afraid that I have received the red-carpet treatment while non-white travellers have been disregarded. 

Teaching in Sudan: challenges and criticisms.

Overwhelming expectation

Expectations can be overwhelming. The unrealistic optimism of ministry officials, teachers and students in the Khawaja’s capacity to cultivate English fluency in Sudanese schools bordered on delusional. It is fair to say that if these miraculous expectations constitute the benchmark of success, my results certainly fall well below par

At an abstract level the quality of spoken English has not suddenly improved over the course of the last six month. Moreover, there has been no tangible progress in establishing the intended ‘English Clubs’ and ‘Teacher Workshops’ (I put most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the inactive ministry personnel). The weight of overwhelming expectation has the tendency to bring my inadequacies and inexperience as a teacher into ever sharper focus.

 Yet, observing the teaching of my colleagues such concerns soon fade into irrelevance. Complacently, I find confidence in their shortcomings. Not only does the question ‘how much worse can I be?’ seem reassuring, rather than an ominous tempt of fate, but my presence seems to have purpose as well as the considerable support of both students and teachers.

 English fluency, and critical thinking have fallen victim to decades of neglect and inattention. Teachers, whether bound or simply blinded by the existing English curriculum, curb student engagement in learning. SPINE led learning (Sudan Practical Integrated National English textbook- a title as mindless/ gobbledegook as the classroom instruction itself) has disenfranchised students.

Improving spoken English

We are part of a pilot program designed to improve the level of spoken English in Sudanese secondary schools. Under the leadership of the federal Ministry of Education, the program looks to reverse the damaging effects that aggressive policies of Arabization (since late 1980s) have had on the standard of English- particularly spoken English- in Sudan.

Some of our students

 The decision to change the language of instruction in Sudanese schools from English to Arabic made certain the deterioration of English. As an independent, post-colonial country, English was an invaluable resource that had the potential to set Sudan apart from many of its non-English speaking, developing country rivals. Instead, decades of neglect have left Sudan with its two youngest generations unable to communicate, and consequently compete, in an irreversibly global marketplace.

 While English still constitutes one of the core school subjects its teaching is plagued by incompetence and strategic failings. Teacher led-instruction, prioritization of accuracy over fluency and the neglect of speaking and listening skills, combines to leave most students (at least boys) in their last year of secondary school still unable to introduce themselves in English. The SPINE textbook is no doubt a considerable cause of this. 

 Teachers use SPINE as a kind of binding script, veering away from its text only for the purpose of translation to Arabic. The content is abstract, with chapters designated to such trivial garbage as ‘bird migration’. Reminders of Grammar are ever-present. Always, SPINE strives to be informative about Sudanese culture, ignoring the important association between a language and its cultural context.

 It follows that my main aim has been to improve speaking and listening skills among students. Interaction is at the core of these efforts. Where possible I have attempted to take a backseat role, giving the students the opportunity to speak and, importantly, think. Lessons have a functional focus that, devoid of the abstract drivel concentrated in SPINE, aims to utilize English through situational learning (eg. directions and invitations).

Abdul Karim end of year party

 In addition to my lessons I have taken a handful of English clubs. Due to scheduling difficulties, and a typical lack of urgency to resolve them, only one English Club has been fully established.  This is a shame as the relaxed, leisurely environment of the English Club prompts far more interaction than the more strict and rigorous format of my ordinary classes.

My school routine

My time is divided between three boys secondary schools: Ismahel al-Welli, Abdul Karim Hussein Jaffa and El Obeid ‘thanwiya beneen’. Over the course of the week I will teach about 15 periods to 15 different classes.  Given that one period is only 40 minutes it is unsurprising that progress can be slow. While the lazy side of me, euphemistically referred to as  ‘resourceful’,  recognizes that 15 different classes requires only one, maybe two, lesson plans; the earnest, hardworking side acknowledges that English advancement is limited with only 40 minutes a week to teach upwards of 60 students.

  Sudanese working life assumes a typically unhurried, leisurely pace.  The considerable time between lessons drifts unconsciously from one hour to the next. Amid the intermittent, two-way language lessons with my Arabic-speaking colleagues, discussions ebb and flow. Trivial conversations on football and WWE soon become consumed by engaging, sometimes impassioned, arguments on politics and the declining state of Sudanese society.

My colleagues at Ishmael al-Welli

 The time drinking shy/ jabanna, learning Arabic and lamenting about Sudan’s better days, drifts effortlessly by for the better part of the morning. Feeling as though the working day is yet to start the 11am breakfast has arrived. As is seemingly obligatory, the teachers and I once again stop for a protracted breakfast of fuul (beans) or adis (lentils) with bread.

 Unlike in the West, time in Sudan is infinite. It can be leisurely whiled away, unconstrained by the finite, Western bounds that see ‘time as money’. In Sudan time is never wasted. Rather, like the rich man who frivolously gives away money, the Sudanese teacher whiles away a few more hours. In this vein, my day takes shape…

*

One evening last week I received a phone-call from Ustaz Hussein, a colleague from one of the Boys Secondary Schools I teach at. Hussein’s phone-call, not unusually, regarded semantics; more specifically his planned designation of an English Summer School for students as a ‘Summer Concentration Camp’.

  Besides being considerably amused by this most unfortunate of gaffes (which is itself noteworthy), I was left astonished that Hussein, not only one of El Obeid’s most respected English teachers but also an English literature Phd student (albeit a Sudanese Phd…) , could be so oblivious to the connotations and context of this term. Over the past week I have come to view this bungled experiment with the English language as indicative of the wider failings of English language instruction in Sudan.

Unengaged and uninformed

 An Inflexible obedience to the curriculum, manifested by unyielding adherence to the SPINE textbook leaves the students and teachers completely detached from the cultural base that carries the English language. Whether by intention or not, the SPINE curriculum supposes that English can be taught without the ‘cultural baggage’ that accompanies it. Not only does this leave English lessons’ devoid of creative and engaging content but, more worryingly, consigns students, and teachers alike, to the perils of systemic ignorance. The consequences of this are that terms such as ‘Concentration Camp’ are lifted from their appropriate context, translated literally and ultimately, used erroneously.

I am under no illusions about the unfailingly low levels of English I have had to contend with in my boys’ secondary schools. Yet, it is not so much the low level of English as the interactive and communicative method of instruction that has presented my biggest classroom obstacle. Classroom utterances  of ‘ma inglesi…Arrabi! Arrabi’ leave me frustrated and perturbed rather than sympathetic or reflective. Exasperated I urge the students to ‘switch on their brains’. I let the long silences persist, determined not to spoon-feed the students appropriate words or dialogue.  It is such that the role-play on ‘directions’ becomes a battle of wills.

 On the one hand I obstinately persist, insistent that my class will instil at least an inkling of the creativity, critical analysis and assertiveness which is so thoroughly lacking in other classes. Thus, I wait; urging my students to at least attempt to utilize the newly gathered vocabulary to guide their partners around the fictional town outlined on the blackboard. Encouraged to ‘think’, the students are out of their comfort zone.   

 Thinking has become an alien concept in Sudan. In Sudan the teacher is the transmitter of knowledge; the students their passive recipients. The existing classroom environment prioritizes rote learning and memorization over student engagement and understanding. As one teacher trainer in El Obeid said ‘the students know nothing’.  Despairingly she anticipated the coming of age of a generation of leaders deprived of the ‘real knowledge’ necessary to navigate a more promising course for Sudan.

 Class time is overwhelmingly dominated by the teacher. With the duration of the lesson spent religiously regurgitating the content of the SPINE textbooks and simplified English novels (eg. Treasure Island), the teacher leaves little time for student involvement. Exams, simply in a reading/ writing format, are based entirely on memorizing this content. Teachers lack both the will and capacity to bestow their students with skills that go beyond the meagre ‘one word’ ‘fill in the blank’ demands of the exam curriculum. Learning literature by rote and grammatical accuracy are prioritized. Fluency is overlooked; creative impulse stunted.

An exception: dressed for their self-made English language play

 It follows that guiding a classmate around my blackboard town is beyond the passive student. Unable to flawlessly memorize either the teacher’s exact expression, or the abstract grammatical explanations misleadingly emphasised in SPINE, the student is frozen in his footsteps; incapable of solving the unexpected, undetermined problem that confronts him.

 Almost a fifth of my lesson has been consumed as I determinedly wait for my student to come to an answer of his own making. Neglected, the 79 other students in my class have become rowdy. My obstinate will to persist gives way to the spoon-feeding strategy. It seems that the classroom is a battle of wills that I will always lose.

A question of resources

Perhaps it is not so much the method of learning as the dearth of learning resources that blights English language instruction in Sudan. Hussein’s Concentration Camp gaffe seems insignificant when teachers are regularly misapplying fundamentals. During my time in El Obeid, I am yet to find a teacher who can correctly tell the time in English. Half past four, for instance, is ‘ four and a half’. Likewise, I have found no teacher who has mastered the word ‘ago’. Instead of ‘two years ago’, teachers will always say ‘before two years’. The language proficiency of English teachers in El Obeid falls far below any presumed minimal level of competence.

 Thus, far from being an asset to students’ comprehension of English the majority of teachers are, regrettably, a liability. Saturating students’ minds ‘with incorrect English- to the extent that teachers regularly interrupt students in order to ‘falsely correct’- the teachers are instilling flawed English in a whole generation.

 Communicating with the majority of English teachers entails a struggle that betrays their job title. The simplest question must be rephrased multiple times in order for its premise to be grasped. Quicker than anticipated, conversations reach a point of exhaustion. “Zuzu” represents the most worrying example of this dearth of competence within the English teaching profession. It is no exaggeration to say that even a question as basic as ‘Where are you from’ was beyond her understanding.

Teaching a class of first year girls, Zuzu was, predictably, out of her depth. Metaphorically, she drowned. I felt sympathy for Zuzu; bemused that someone so obviously incompetent and under-qualified had been permitted to teach a class of 70 girls. She spent the entire class incorrectly reciting the text book, only modifying her instruction to briefly, and inevitably incorrectly, write some misspelt ‘key words’ on the blackboard which the class would then recite. The rolling eyes of her students as well as their superior English ensured that the lesson was an exercise in her humiliation.

 The teacher-dominated classroom is in some ways inevitable given the enormous class sizes teachers must contend with. In a class of 80 teenage boys it is infeasible to expect to give each student the attention and supervision necessary for real progress to be made. Unfortunately I am left with a ‘greater good decision’: teach some students something or all students nothing. As such, I decide to leave the raucous back-rows (often those students whose parents lost out in the competition to render their children front-row seats) to their own devices; only intervening when their disorderliness threatens the remainder of the class.

  The six schools we teach in are all ‘Model Schools’. Enjoying model status entitles a school to a greater concentration of financial (higher school fees) and material resources than non-model secondary schools (although these resources are not apparent in the model schools).  Supposedly, the model schools are composed of the more academically gifted students, empowering them to acquire a reputation of excellence that other schools lack. However, the link between academic proficiency and model status is not straightforward.

 The make-up of the model school directly parallels that of El Obeid’s more affluent communities. Naturally, the more academically gifted emanate from educated households, more likely to be found in richer neighbourhoods. Conversely the less academically gifted originate from less educated households, more likely to be found in El Obeid’s poorer neighbourhoods. The model school is a clone of the most prosperous families

 Perversely, public resources are concentrated in communities most financially and socially able to acquire them. Communities which lack these means are left perpetually under-resourced. In order to retain their model status schools, not so secretly, manipulate academic statistics.

 Those students who achieve sub-standard results in their second year (of three) of secondary school are grouped in the same class. Although still receiving their education at the model school- and required to pay the higher school fees- these students are not permitted to undertake their Sudan Certificate Exams (the Sudanese equivalent of British GCSE’s) under the name of the school. Instead they sit the Sudanese Certificate registered as attendees of ‘evening classes’. It is therefore misleading and overly simplistic to say that model school students are academically gifted students. It would be more accurate to conclude that the model school is the domain of the (relatively) wealthy.

 Manipulating exam results ensures that the façade of the model school, with its heightened reputation and resources, is maintained. Yet, in reality the level of excellence implied by the title ‘model school’ masks the wholesale deterioration of secondary school education in Sudan.

The "Khawaja Mentality".

…. Although my first year of teaching is drawing to a close (it seems I have barely started) this blog is yet to touch upon the ‘day-to-day’ realities and rituals of living in Sudan. With this in mind the following will frame my experiences of living in Sudan from the standpoint of the Khawaja, teacher and traveller. 

 Despite making every attempt to be inconspicuous, my residence in El Obeid has hardly gone unnoticed. Instead, like the ‘C’ list celebrity who does almost anything- but at the same time basically nothing- to raise their profile (as though famous for the sake of being famous), my exposure alone seems enough to ensure that heads swiftly turn, conversations abruptly change and one of a number of names is hollered my way as I pass on by.

 Indeed, it has proven nigh on impossible to escape the shouts of Tim, teacher, Ustaz, Christin, ‘white-boy’, nigger, ‘China’ and the like used to attract my attention. However, it is perhaps one name above all others that lingers on the lips of the Sudanese: “Khawaja”. Like an impulsive, excitable young child visiting a zoo full of rare and exotic animals , Sudanese drivers regularly slow down the traffic and wind down their windows just to exclaim ‘Khawaja/ Khawajia (f)’ in our direction…

 Khawaja is a term Sudanese people use when referring to foreigners, specifically white foreigners. In its spoken form its utterance evokes a palpable sense of the hospitality and warmth proffered by the majority of Sudanese. Far from feeling victim to some denigrating, discriminatory racial slur I feel recognised, even respected by this acknowledgement of my presence. I often consider it endearing how the ‘sita chai’ (tea lady) takes pride in remembering and recollecting the Khawaja’s preference for tea ‘bedoun sukker’ (without sugar), or how the young school-children pursue me with enthusiastic shouts of ‘Khawaja! Khawaja!’ simply in the hope that I may return their wave or, briefly speak English with them.

 But, unspoken, there exists an implicit ‘Khawaja mentality’. My white skin is a statement of difference, a presumption of status that is neither questioned nor censored, but simply given. Private, inconsequential moments are pierced by the stares of strangers, such that my nose pick, my absent-minded stumble or my subtle scratch become magnified where normally they would go unnoticed. Under these circumstances I feel the glare of countless eyes interrogating not only my every action but also my demeanour and appearance. Symptomatic of the ‘Khawaja mentality’ is its intrusiveness.

 However the ‘Khawaja mentality’ is not merely a superficial concept, devoid of deeper meaning and, by consequence root causes. Instead I would suggest that the ‘Khawaja mentality’ can be explained with reference to the idea of an ‘inferiority complex’ and ‘primitive’ understanding of difference.

1.  Primitive difference

The term ‘Khawaja’ intimates ignorance, rather than antagonism or indecency. Perpetual poverty as well as Sudan’s continuing status as an international ‘pariah’ has left Sudanese people isolated. Tourism is basically non-existent. Internal struggles for survival are pervasive. Exposure is limited.  Under these circumstances it seems no surprise that Sudanese people are highly sensitized to difference (whether in terms of skin colour, religion or language).  

 Moreover unlike the multicultural, multiracial and multi-ethnic diversity we are accustomed to in Western society, Sudanese society is still stuck in an ancestral ‘tribal’ mentality that views difference and diversity through a separatist mentality of ‘us’ and ‘them’. The importance attached to internal solidarity, by exaggerating the groups’ self-image, ensures that anything deviating from the groups’ characteristics (eg. racial difference) is seen in even more stark, black-and-white terms.

2. Inferiority Complex

My white skin is not merely a symbol of difference, but rather a ‘marker of status’. People assume that the ‘Khawaja’ is a source of betterment, development and prestige. From the students and teachers who, with neither evidence nor assurances in my ability, assume exposure alone will instill in them English fluency, to the ministry of education officials who act as though my presence is in itself a political statement of intent, it seems people have subconsciously internalized the tenets of the ‘White man’s burden’.

 With a non-existent tourism industry and limited international mobility (except from diaspora workers and political refugees), the Sudanese encounter with the Westerner- or ‘white man’- has overwhelmingly occurred within the context of colonialism and development (the NGO worker). Perhaps testament to how bad things have become since independence and, particularly, the commencement of Omar al-Bashir’s reign, the ‘Khawaja’ is both a reminder and promise of better days. We have heard numerous ramblings about general British ‘decency’ and the positive legacy the British left in Sudan, only to be destroyed by subsequent Sudanese regimes.

  Being in Sudan is good for the ego. I recently read that the roots of the word Khawaja are Persian, translating as ‘lord’ or ‘master’.  Whilst most Sudanese are unaware of this translation (most people use the term humorously), it embodies the undeserved deference rendered to the ‘white man’. The notion of the Khawaja is a false promise, a misleading and deceptive abstraction. In the current context of 'post development hype' fatigue this Khawaja illusion has become even more apparent.  Contrary to what people believe progress and development will not come at his hand. Similarly his pockets are not bottomless nor his mental faculties exceptional. The question begs therefore, with the exception of my ego, who exactly is the Khawaja good for?

Christmas…where Christmas does not [really] exist.

Reader Warning: Brevity is not something that comes easily to me. 

 Christmas in a place where Christmas does not exist can easily become a rummage for nostalgia, a futile pursuit that yields to the sentimental longings of carols, Christmas trees, brandy butter, mulled wine and the like. The blind pursuit of these yearnings ignores the cold and sober reality that Christmas dinner cannot be recreated on two defective gas hobs; alcohol will not make the  desired festive appearance unless one succumbs to illegally home brewed 'arragi' (and by consequence,  the 'anything goes' attitude of an alcoholic); and crucially even if one can find a suitable replacement Christmas tree, it will only be a matter of time until the festive spirit of generosity and giving is once again betrayed by an inescapable brand loyalty  to the 'masura' made in China (for Africa) ‘collection’, ensuring the life span of a Christmas present will be short. 

 With this in mind my sense of  'Christmassiness' extended no further than the pulpit of my classroom, where, in retrospect, my Christmas themed lesson was perhaps more a forum for failed evangelism than English language learning. Indeed, my Christmas nativity themed listening comprehension was largely disregarded with a curt declaration ‘we’re Muslim’, rendering my lesson plan utterly ineffectual! Perhaps you can now see how Christmas escaped me and, as such, I simply assumed 'C' and I were not exchanging presents this year… Despite your inevitable eagerness to cast me as a miserly Ebeneezer Scrooge I insist that I was more a pragmatist, making the most out of the ‘un-Christmassy’ reality we found ourselves in.

 It was this spirit of ‘What can we do well in Sudan’ that directed our pre-Christmas meeting with the Director General (our boss), Ishmael. Such visits to Ishmael’s office have become an enjoyable part of our weekly routine. As well as offering the best peanuts (Sudanese fuul) in El Obeid and, for that matter, rather good coffee (jabanna), Ishmael is also a source of unwavering support, particularly when it comes to the persistent encroachments of the security authorities. Moreover the DG’s insistence that German’s’- even now- claim racial purity, Sudanese people are actually fond of Jews and Obama is Sudanese, leaves us- somewhat strangely- always coming back for more. Accordingly our visits usually take up the greater part of the afternoon.

 Returning to our pre-Christmas meeting, 'C' and I were raring to make the most out of the three day holiday Ishmael had granted us for Christmas. ‘What about Camel’s?’ Given El Obeid’s rich camel heritage, as well as 'C's relentless recollections about her ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ moment(s) in Morocco , a camel journey seemed to be an exciting, and perhaps even feasible, way in which to mark our holiday. With some team brainstorming we then conceived the possibility of riding camels to a nomad school somewhere in the greater nothingness of Kordofan’s arid scrubland. Ishmael soon summoned Idris, the man in charge of North Kordofan’s nomad schools and, incidentally, the owner of a considerable camel caravan, to his office. Having received Idirs’s approval and kind offer to escort us, 'C' and I began to envision our own ‘Arabian Nights’ adventure. Our dreams of traversing the desert on camel-back in search of a nuclear, rarely intruded upon desert-dwelling tribe were, however, regrettably fleeting.

On the first day of Christmas….

While camels and nomad schools were indeed the order of the day, our journey was not quite the awe-inspiring, desert traversing adventure we had hoped for. Instead, having driven us barely beyond the populated borders of El Obeid, Idris stopped his pick-up truck and gestured us towards,’Shaf’, the solitary camel who had been enlisted to accompany 'C' and I for a ‘Khawaja and Camel’ photo-shoot . Roped in simply for the ‘benefit’ of 'C' and I, Shaf cut a dejected camel. His persistent gnarling, ensuing as soon as he was dragged away from consuming the stable’s fodder roof, spoke volumes of our collective sense of exasperation; traipsing around on a camel in front of a horde of school children and camera phone branding Sudanese men was not exactly how we had visualised our camel escapade.

Shaf

 After a quick breakfast of ‘aseeda’ (savoury Sudanese porridge) we left the enervating Sudanese petting zoo behind and, by pickup truck, continued our journey to the nomad school. Nomadic tribes have historically been a conspicuous component of North Kordofan’s communities, deriving from a pastoral tradition of animal husbandry that stresses the necessity of seasonal herd movements (largely dictated by the rainy season). In North Kordofan there are, generally speaking, two types of nomadic tribes: communities such as the Bagarra (cow), consisting of the Hawazma and Miseria tribes, who herd cows; and conversely communities, like the Kababish and Shanabla tribes, who herd camels.

 Nomadic tribes have traditionally been amongst some of the most conservative communities in Sudan (female circumcision, polygamy etc). There is a belief that education is redundant; a distraction from the more important jobs of tending to livestock and managing the household.  Even where basic education has been welcomed, albeit hesitantly, there exists a substantial gender imbalance as marriage- and a life of housewifery- is deemed more imperative for preteen girls than a basic level education. Consequently the Sudanese government consider the promotion of nomadic education as crucial in ensuring that this nomadic youth receive the same education opportunities as other Sudanese children.

 The initial product of the government’s policy to improve educational opportunities for nomadic children was the ‘mobile’ or ‘roving’ school. Instead of bringing the children to the school, the mobile schools project literally brings the school to the children via a kind of travelling teacher service. For all intents and purposes the teacher becomes a member of the nomadic group; travelling with the community while simultaneously adapting to their uncustomary, but requisite schooling schedule. Despite my expressed desire to become a ‘roving teacher’, we unfortunately did not find this first type of school on our journey.

 Rather, the school we visited was testament to the government’s efforts to ‘bring the children to the school’. Through preferential policies (school building) and financial incentives (school fees) the government has endeavoured to encourage nomadic communities to adjust their traditionally ‘mobile’ lifestyle. In exchange, the government establishes schools intended to provide not only educational opportunities but also a sense of stability, continuity and ownership to the nomad community. Thus, while the men of the tribe continue their traditional nomadic lifestyles, the women and children have begun to settle permanently. It was this kind of school that we ventured upon 30minutes to the South-West of El Obeid.

The nomad school

 Our visit to this emerging nomadic settlement was a tale of two schools. The facilities of the ‘old’ school (the only school for the previous eight years) were scarcely suitable for accommodating animals, let alone overcrowded classes of eager, yet deprived young children. With the exception of a few tattered tarpaulins, the classrooms were constructed from cheap, surplus natural materials that improvised shelter while, in reality, offering little protection from the harsh  weather of North Kordofan (haboob’s [sandstorms] and severe winds in the winter, scorching heat in the summer, and incessant rain in the autumn). Given these conditions it is remarkable that nomad families have stuck around for the past eight years; waiting patiently for the promised new school to be delivered.

....Inside the classroom

  Entering one of the all too permanent ‘stop-gap’ classrooms, it was clear that over crowdedness and lack of space was even more severe than in my secondary school classes back in El Obeid. Not only was my body arched over awkwardly for the duration of the ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes’ exercise, but also one hundred and ten small children were horded under the shade of the tarpaulin and fodder roof. It is impossible to dispute that our classes in El Obeid are overcrowded and under-resourced. Yet the scantiness of resources and investment as you move away from the regional hub of El Obeid, makes the former seem like a temple of educational excellence. However with the assistance of NGO’s such as the Community Development Fund (CDF) the government is- eight years later- on the brink  of opening a new all-weather school, equipped with chairs, desks, blackboards and even electricity. Although, given the tenuous Sudanese relationship with time (the recent ‘golden jubilee’ at El Obeid Secondary School for Girls occurred in its 51^st year), it would be prudent not to hold your breath…

On the second day of Christmas…

 Fortunately the second day of our Christmas holiday started in a more enlivening fashion than the first.  With two morale boosting Christmas Eve breakfasts of banana and Nutella pancakes (a Christmas treat due to the extortionate price of Nutella) as well as aseeda with gambo (an okra based sauce) and tagallea (tomato based) (from El Obeid’s famed aseeda maker ‘hajji cuckoo’) we, in typical Sudanese style, happily whiled away the better part of the morning waiting to be picked up .Finally a car was readied and, accompanied by Ustaz Mohammed (history teacher) and Adam (geography teacher) from Abu Sita school, we proceeded to ‘Jebel’ (mountain) Kordofan.

 Having conducted his phd research on Jebel Kordofan and its history, Mohammed acted as our personal tour-guide, providing direction to what would otherwise have simply been aimless appreciation of the area’s natural beauty. A quick, but noteworthy digression from our trip to Jebel Kordofan, is Mohammed’s virile ninety year old father. At ninety Mohammed’s father and his twenty-six year old fourth wife are expecting… defying what I assumed the biologically possible. Despite my initial unwillingness to believe, multiple sources have assured me that this pregnancy is, against all rationality, real. Before we leave El Obeid Mohammed has assured me that we will travel to his village and meet the man himself. In the meantime I recommended he start contacting Western TV producers, who would no doubt pay serious money to document this unheard of episode. 

  Jebel Korodfan is undeniably the most striking and imposing landmark within El Obeid’s vicinity. Situated about twenty minute drive to the South of town, the mountain’s reddish composition and modest undulations seem perhaps more outstanding given the dusty ‘flatness’ that, as though  boundless, extends to the horizon and beyond. I have repeatedly asked myself whether my appreciation of Jebel Kordofan’s view’s and vista’s is vindication of its geographic magnificence or, simply demonstration that North Kordofan’s flat ‘nothingness’ can even make the unremarkable seem remarkable. The term ‘nothingness’ is perhaps, in this case, overly disparaging. Since when was such vast simplicity deemed unspectacular and boring?

Looking to the South/ SE of Jebel Kordofan

 Although only 550m above sea-level (officially a hill, not a mountain), climbing Jebel Kordofan brings a sense of scale to the vastness of North Kordofan and, by consequence, Sudan. At the foot of the mountain lie a series of small villages constructed, as we have become accustomed to in Kordofan, from sticks and brushwood. Further away, toward the South-East, one can discern the silhouette of the ‘a-Dire’ mountains straddling the conflict torn North-South Kordofan border. As Mohammed guided us up through the raised valley separating Jebel Kordofan’s two peaks, the mountains rich historical legacy became clear. Lining our route were numerous burial sites; some with their lineage in the ancient Nuba kingdom,  other’s with a more recent Islamic heritage.  

 According to Mohammed it was in this Nubian period that Kordofan acquired its current name. Soon after making peace with the Ghodiat, ‘King’ Kordo/Kuldu’s goodwill was betrayed by these same, supposedly former, adversaries that he had made peace with. After successfully besieging Jebel Kordofan, the King’s seat of power, the Ghodiat assumed control of Kordofan from the Nuba. In ancient Nubian language it is claimed that ‘fan’ means ‘remember’. Literally speaking therefore, ‘Kordofan’ means ‘remember Kordo’; a lightly veiled warning that one should never forget who their enemies are. 

 Our last act of Christmas Eve was to attend the ‘Midnight Mass’ (actually at 9pm), held at El Obeid’s Catholic Cathedral, reputedly the biggest in Africa. Despite being in Arabic- with the exception of the service ending rendition of ‘Joy to the World’- the service was an eye-opening exercise in ‘spot the Khawaja’. Where we previously thought we had been alone, there are in fact a number of Khawajas- largely nuns from Comboni school and clergy from the cathedral- who, if only to raise their head to the outside world at the Catholic Cathedral, reside in El Obeid.

 One of our main motivations for attending the Midnight Mass service was the hope that there would be some ‘Christmassy’ African music to encourage a sense of festive cheer in us. While the choir was cheery enough, the supporting guitar was so amateurishly out of tune that listening to the music became a battle to catch the nice bits over the garish instrumental accompaniment. Equally disjointed was the constant sauntering of patients from the nearby ‘Kordofan special hospital’ around the Cathedral during the service’s proceedings. Although not suggesting anyone should be disallowed from attending the Christmas service, the ‘sauntering’ patients of ‘Kordofan special hospital’ appeared, like the guitar, slightly out of place. Saying this, the rest of the congregation seemed perfectly content…

On the third day of Christmas…

 Christmas day was a sombre occasion. To 'C's considerable dismay there were no Christmas presents to wake up to, nor alcoholic Christmas beverages to conceal any distant longings for at least some festive semblance. Instead we made do with a ‘special' Christmas breakfast of banana and Nutella pancakes, fruit salad and shayria (spaghetti with sugar and sometimes cinnamon or cardamom). The remainder of the day was spent moping…

Christmas breakfast 

 On Christmas eveining we had arranged to visit Ahmed’s (the head master of Igura basic school and former head of CAREint. Sudan) house, where a group of his 10-13 year old girls from Igura school had arranged a special Christmas party for 'C' and I. However, due to ‘technical difficulties’, we were unable to contact Ahmed and thus, to the consequent disappointment of his students, the party fell through.  Fortunately all was not lost…

  Rather it was decided that we should rearrange the party for New Year’s eve, ensuring that the girls’ considerable efforts in preparing the celebration would not be in vein. So to allow more students to attend, while also allaying the apparent concerns of some parents, the party’s venue was shifted to Igura school. Emerging on to the school’s roof terrace in the soft, ephemeral glow of the dusk twilight we were met by a guard of honour, clapping and celebrating our presence at their party.

Party games

To say that this New Years was a little different from those past is an understatement …instead of alcohol and Auld Lang Syne, this year’s motif was more ‘cherry pop’ (Pasaignaos) and Justin Bieber. Under the watchful supervision of a few of the girl’s parents (bringing me back to the days of childhood birthday parties) and with the mischievous encouragement of Ustaz Ahmed, 'C' and I were pressured into becoming the participants for a game of ‘in the hot seat’ eg. a license to ask any question, however personal, with the expectation that one answers truthfully. The questions could have been lifted straight from some teen magazine. Here’s a sample:

 “Was 'C' the first women you loved?”

 “If 'C' told you that she loved another man, but you still loved her would you stay with her?”

…And, my personal favourite:

“Are you a good boy or a bad boy?”

With the exception of the last question  (I felt neither embarrassment nor shame in admitting to the girls that I was, of course, a ‘very bad boy’) their remorseless interrogation left me feeling as though Guantanamo Bay would have been easy in comparison. Nonetheless, at least I could go home, reassured by the heart shaped ‘for my lover’ Christmas clock, that the students' love and adoration for 'C' was diminutive in comparison to the feelings reserved for me…

Bangideed, ‘Lemon Bara’ and the wedding party with no bride.

 The drawback of visiting and living in Sudan is one’s powerlessness to freely move or spontaneously explore the country. Each newly visited locality requires, at the very least, a new travel permit and, at worst, involves an extended bureaucratic hold-up at the rarely troubled, easily excitable local security office. 

 Lingering for at least an hour in the office of the local Security Commissioner in Bara, this ‘drawback’ was especially plain to see. Our arrival had undoubtedly broken the daily routine of inactivity and idleness that usually awaits the Bara security personnel; the bare, unadorned desk and office corner bed surely more representative of perpetual tedium than organizational minimalism and drawn out working hours.

 After a third or fourth offering of dates we were eventually told that we must return to El Obeid (a 45 minute journey) in order to obtain the prerequisite travel permits. I was assured that that these security procedures were ‘for my own safety’; necessary safeguards against any illness that might befall me, any accident that might encumber me and any ‘tribal land dispute’ that I might inadvertently wonder into during our few hours in Bara. 

 Unsurprisingly I was unconvinced; such constraints appear more symptomatic of a blatant undercurrent of government paranoia that assumes foreigners travelling in Sudan must have an undisclosed ulterior motive, than an act of selfless- be it slightly aggressive- hospitality. Fortunately we were only 15 minutes into our return journey to El Obeid when the self-proclaimed “DG” (Director General) of Secondary Schools in North Kordofan, Ishmael, rang, ordering us to turn around and return to Bara having secured the authorisation of the relevant security apparatus in Khartoum.

  Accompanied by Vanessa, Rami, Ustaz Bakri, Ustaz Klayal and Ustaz Hamid our journey that morning had started in a more optimistic and upbeat fashion. In the back of the jeep Ustaz Hamid was subjecting me to a rather unnerving exhortation about the desirability of dates with milk, ‘simsim’ (sesame) with honey and various other aphrodisiacal Sudanese concoctions. 

 Only two days before we had attended Hamid’s preliminary wedding party, pre-empting the actual ceremony and arrival of his unseen, unexplored fiancé from Seattle USA. Perhaps this sense of mystery and distance explained the restless hankering that persisted despite the obvious discomfort his hushed, chummy whispers induced in the jeep’s crammed backseat.

 Hamid’s character (mannerisms and intonation) resembles that of a primary school teacher. His ungainly, but equally infective, enthusiasm- rather akin to Barney the purple dinosaur ('C'a words not mine)- goes beyond the classroom environment instead permeating every aspect of his interaction. The fact that one second Hamid was discussing Sudanese aphrodisiacs with me and the next patronising 16 year old boys with renditions of ‘if your happy and you know it clap your hands’ was bizarre. I was left completely disoriented by how this archetypal primary school teacher could also be one’s ‘matey’ sex guru.

 Hamid’s pre-wedding wedding party was a typically merry Sudanese celebration. Men donned in traditional white jallabya’s frenetically clicked their fingers in line with the slow but equally upbeat tempo typical of Sudanese dance.  The more competent danced with extra dynamism and audacity; thrusting their hips back and styling their arms/ hands in an almost feminine (or perhaps animalistic) way that appeared expressive of various ubiquitous elements of female living in Sudan. 

 Without the free-flow of alcohol the evening was a sombre reminder that my hips (and for that matter my whole body) are incapable of rolling and thrusting with any sort of rhythmic panache. Instead, despite my best efforts to at least minimally shake and sway in sync with the Sudanese men, I remained- with the exception of my finger clicking (which gave me a blister)-statue like as though rendered immobile by chronic arthritis. The evening could have easily become an exercise in ‘spot the [awkward] Englishman’.

 The wedding celebration was almost exclusively oriented around the men. However in tandem with the older married women, who with their celebratory wailing had quickly become the focal point of the men’s dancing, the Khawajias’ (white women) were apparently exempt from any gender based protocols. While the remainder of the women were either sitting or dancing gingerly on the fringes , both the Khawajias’ as well as a selection of the older wives joined the merriments that enfolded the new, or rather soon to be groom, Hamid. Perhaps the absence of the bride was to blame for the marginalization of the remainder of the women. Where the bride is not merely absent but also unknown, unseen and technically foreign, wedding protocol undoubtedly becomes increasingly hazy. 

 After participating in a short demonstration lesson for 13/14  year old boys on ‘Christmas’ , our visit to Bara Secondary School for Boys had, for all intents and purposes,  morphed into a postlude for Hamid’s wedding celebrations of two days previous. Orchestrated by the headmaster, the school had staged a concert, or rather as they more aptly called it a ‘party’, in our honor  Four or five of the schools more gifted singers joined some local musicians –playing keyboard and some sort of electronic soundboard (the usual components of ‘traditional’ Sudanese music)- to entertain the on looking students, teachers and guests. 

 Soon enough Hamid had risen from his chair and, with his charismatic cheeriness and gangly, flaying limbs, headed a caravan of clicking well-wishers around all four corners of the school courtyard. After accosting the majority of the assembled audience it was my turn to receive Hamid’s incessant jolliness. Somewhat inevitably I was obliged to accept the invitation to join the languid cohort of dancers/ clickers strolling among the audience in time with the music.

 The music and ‘dancing’ lasted well over an hour; interrupted only by the speeches of gratitude and encouragement from the headmaster and assembled guests. At one point the headmaster ordered me to join him in front of the audience. Thrusting the microphone upon me he proceeded to pronounce- unbeknown to me- that I would like to perform ‘lemon Bara’ to the few hundred teenage boys, teachers and local guests amassed to mark our visit. 

 The whole exercise taught me that one should neither brag sarcastically about singing proficiency, nor invoke admiration of local songs, and more generally traditions, simply to seem supportive of cultural diversity: it will inevitably come back to haunt you. Fortunately I was only asked to sing the chorus of ‘lemon Bara’- which conveniently consists of the lyrics ‘lemon Bara’. Soon enough 'C' was obliged to join me, and before long we had a sizeable chorus to share out the ‘lemon Baras’.

 ‘Lemon Bara’ does not merely depict Bara’s renowned history of growing lemons, but rather is a metaphor for the equally renowned beauty allegedly bequeathed from one generation of Bara’s women to another. My highlight of the school visit came when 'C', in reference to Bara’s figurative lemons exclaimed (in a no doubt unintended nod to Delia Smith): ‘I don’t see any lemons here…so Bara WHERE ARE YOUR LEMONS?’... Unfortunately 'C's inadvertent attempts to draw attention to Bara’s female lemons, or rather the lack of them, fell upon deaf ears among the students, staff and guests at Bara Secondary School for Boys.

Visiting Bara was, first and foremost, a liberating experience. While Bara is indeed (more aptly described as a village) a quaint and charming place to while away some time, it is also respite (once we had addressed the security issues) from the sometimes suffocating confinement of El Obeid. The village is lined with tall, green and luscious trees, whose wide canopies form a refreshing sanctuary from the unrelenting heat of Sudan’s sun. Bara’s assortment of trees, ranging from the ‘Sunnet’s’ that delineate the path of the road, to the lemon and date trees that fill  its famous ‘gardens’, are a legacy of British colonialism; their antiquated, or rather, orderly arrangement is clear testament to this. 

 After visiting one particularly famous tree, legendary not only for its confusing jumble of overlapping and intertwined roots but also the contradictory stories of General Hick’s (killed at the Battle of Sheikan- just South of El Obeid) and/ or Governor McMichael’s association with its history, we ventured in to one of the many gardens that can be found in Bara. The garden was full of lemon and, to a lesser extent jawafa, date and mango tree. 

 The peace and tranquillity of the garden was punctured only by the quiet hum of the water pump; a constant reminder of the precarious ecological balance that the areas current fruitfulness depends upon. Unlike El Obeid only 40 minutes’ drive to the South, Bara has underground aquifers that ensure both a plentiful supply of water and fertile soil. Given the extensive desertification of the last three decade that has rendered El Obeid and its surrounding areas barren, Bara has become increasingly important for the sustenance of multiple regional localities.

 Like Bara, the village of Bangideed- 30 minutes to the South West of El Obeid- supplies water to El Obeid and many of North Kordofan’s more arid localities. Surrounded by an extensive environment of desolate and parched scrubland, Bangideed exists as a kind of green refuge amidst the wider ‘nothingness’ of Kordofan. The purpose of our journey to Bangideed was principally to visit the local secondary school for girls, where we met teachers and students, before subsequently attending and evaluating an English lesson. 

 While the school was clearly under resourced and underfunded -the absence of electricity being the most obvious example- its simplicity was at the same time rather charming, if not even a little intriguing. Although substantial work is still required to advance female education in rural areas (one teacher suggested that less than 50% of girls in Bangideed attend secondary schools), the existence of a girls secondary school in the village constitutes a significant step towards combating the regressive customs that have traditionally thwarted the education of teenage girls.

  I am told that even now it is not uncommon to find a girl married off, often bearing the child of an older man before she has even reached her teenage years. Equally the outdated idea that, destined for a life of housewifery, girls in rural areas do not require a secondary school education remains widespread. In such an environment it is perhaps not surprising that teaching a class of young teenage girls proved far more challenging than in El Obeid. The level of English was so limited that merely stipulating instructions often seemed hopeless.

 With the exception of the  security authorities, seemingly fixated on smothering even the most trivial of our journeys, the past few weeks have been invigorating. Gradually we have been granted more and more opportunities to travel beyond El Obeid’s narrow confinements, somewhat shaking off the perpetual cabin fever that plagued our first month or so. Inshallah this will remain  the case in 2013.

The Petronas/ Ministry of Education National Debate Competition.

After a period of prolonged inactiveness in the blogosphere and with the dust from the ‘Petronas Debate Competition’ so well and truly settled that I feel its memory may soon be plunged into  permanent antiquity, the time is nigh to ridicule the competitions absolute absurdity.

The competition consisted of 16/17 of Sudan’s states ( with the exception of Red Sea State which had declined to attend for some unrevealed reason) , each divided into round-robin style groups of 4. The groups were decided by some undisclosed seeding system that meant , for example, Jazeera and Khartoum state – traditionally the two strongest teams- could not be drawn together. We, North Kordofan state, found ourselves drawn with South Kordofan, North Darfur and Central Darfur.  Owing to a lack of organization and coordination, as well as no doubt a Sudanese insensibility towards time, the competition was dragged out over 8 days. It was made clear by the senile head judge Ibrahim that it would be too much to ask the students to do more than one debate a day (despite the fact that the debates were limited to 16minutes). Consequently the  proceedings would start at around 8am and end at 1pm. At 10am the day’s events would briefly be interrupted by breakfast; or rather a Styrofoam box filled with cold and soggy junk food that would surely leave Jamie Oliver chronically disillusioned. It therefore caused much amusement for our Sudanese friends , when each day at break 'C' and I would walk across the road to the resident  ‘Sita Chai’ to indulge in a bowl of ‘bosch’ (bread and beans  -‘fuul’- mixed together).

Our debate team

 The competition was held at the Sudan headquarters of Petronas, the Sino-Malaysia oil company. The Petronas HQ, with its modernistic yet unassuming corporate architecture (minimalistic marble floors and outdoor landscaping), stood in sharp contrast to the numerous, rather more decrepit, state ministries lined along the prestigious Nile river bank. A large hall, customarily used for badminton, was loaned out by Petronas to the Ministry of Education for the duration of the competition. It was this material help that constituted the bulk of the CSR (Corporate Social Responsibility) assistance dished out. Nonetheless the expertise of Ibrahim, the competition coordinator, was certainly intended to complement this considerable, although apparently diminishing (in comparison to previous years), investment of material and financial resources.

 In reality Ibrahim turned out to be a self-congratulatory leech;  busy convincing himself, as well as anyone else who would listen, that his experience in establishing and developing the competition over the course of its derisory nine year existence, made his judgement unimpeachable. Unsurprisingly our relationship with him began to deteriorate as soon as we queried, and gradually came to criticize the competitions format and organization. In fact our relationship deteriorated to such an extent that I am quite sure the majority of participating students and teachers would rank our confrontation with Ibrahim as one of the five most memorable moments of the 8 days.  

 After probing Ibrahim for much of the day on issues such as scheduling and evaluation criteria, the head judge eventually reached the end of his tether as we informed him of circling rumours about favouritism towards Khartoum state (passed onto us by the students). As we stood in the centre of the debate hall surrounded by numerous students, teachers and guests Ibrahim castigated us for ‘infiltrating the minds’ of students in an attempt to turn them against him and thus undermine his- and the rest of the judging committee’s –authority. His scolding did not end at branding us spies.  Instead his voice, wavering uncontrollably as his fury became yet more maniacal, grew louder and louder; his insults increasingly defamatory.

 'C' and I should not be permitted to visit the students camp, should obtain a letter of permission from the Ministry of Education if we wished to attend the subsequent days competition and finally, did not ‘have a clue’ about Sudanese culture. This last insult reminded me of the chapter on cultural differences in SPINE 4/5 that I taught on my first day in El Obeid. This chapter stated that it was a matter of ‘cultural difference’ that the British were punctual and the Sudanese unpunctual. Putting systemic problems- whether it be punctuality or accountability- down to ‘cultural difference’ seems like an evasion tactic, enabling people to live in a blissful ignorance that brushes over Sudan’s inadequacies.  As Ive spent the last 660 word slamming the debate competition without any precise details, I think it would be appropriate to quickly list some of the my main qualms with the weeks activities:

1.       Please…Lets call the competition what it is:

 Any astute observer would realise that what took place in the Petronas hall was more an English Speech than a debate competition. The format was as follows: Each member of the proposing team would present a two minute , pre-prepared speech, to be followed by three two minute speeches by the opposing team. Thereafter each team would have one two minute block of time to conclude and rebut the other teams argument. This brings me on to point 2….

2.       The competition rewarded  English accuracy over English fluency

Presentation and memorization eg. English accuracy, was prioritised over the ability to respond spontaneously and critically to the other teams arguments eg. English fluency. Students spent their evenings attempting to memorize prewritten speeches rather than brainstorming,  discussing and critically engaging with the topic theme (too often in Sudan students are spoon fed- there is little appetite for problem-solving). Ibrahim and the judging committee believed that the participants level of English was inadequate for such spontaneous interaction. Yet, since when did accuracy come before fluency? The priority at this stage of language learning should be to develop fluency, that is the ability to utilize language and transfer meaning so to meet any situational requirements. A properly arranged and organized debate competition is the perfect forum for this. After all I do not care ‘how’ I asked the’ sita chai ‘(tea lady) for coffee as long as I get the ‘jabana bedoun sukker’ that I requested. This point brings me quickly on to the results of the competition…

3.       Success constituted speaking and presentation rather than content and thought.

 Perhaps one of my biggest groans came when Ibrahim unveiled the candidates for the competitions best debater. Clearly Ibrahim, and the rest of the judges had not listened carefully to the arguments put forward, but rather proffered praise and success for the superficial factors such as accent and pronunciation. It was no surprise therefore that the three candidates put forward for best debater all had American accents (and family in America). Even more shockingly one of these candidates had debated an entirely different topic than the one announced, inadvertently  discussing the question ‘back to front’. I honestly would have nominated any of the other debaters on this individuals team above them.

4.       “Judging a debate competition is wholly subjective”….Sorry Ibrahim…wrong again.

 Over the duration of the competition I became worn down by Ibrahim’s constant pronouncements to students and teachers that judging a debate competition is an entirely subjective (people like different things) exercise. It sounded like a ploy to rid him, and the rest of the judging committee, of any accountability. At one stage 'C' asked Ibrahim a question ‘Do you prefer emotional or factual arguments?’. Ibrahim replied: ‘Personally I prefer emotional but perhaps other judges prefer factual arguments’. Of course the correct answer should have been neither.  A debate competition is not, as Ibrahim seems to believe the subjective interpretation of subjective criteria but rather the subjective interpretation of objective criteria. The lack of criteria is to the detriment of the competition; both enfeebling  the learning potential for students and damaging the judges reputation for impartiality and fairness. How can teachers teach their students, how can students improve without a criterion that sets out the formula for success? Perhaps more worryingly is that the lack of evaluation criteria exonerates authority (in this case the judging panel) of responsibility to explain and justify their decisions. Consequently the lack of criteria at the very least nurtures rumours of corruption and favouritism, if not in actual fact empowering the authorities to use their power frivolously.

5.       Fostering accusations of unfair play and favouritism.

Throughout the week long debate competition we heard recurrent protestations of favouritism by the judging committee towards Khartoum state- this is not surprising given that in its 10 year history Khartoum have won every year. At first I thought that such assertions were simply the groans and moans of slightly sore, and definitively disillusioned losers. Yet, the failure of Ibrahim and the judging committee to address these festering rumours made me question the integrity of the competition. Although through no fault of their own, Khartoum state did not stay in the camp with all the other students, attended only their own debates (rather than the remainder of the competition like other teams) and were afforded additional speaking time by Ibrahim. Furthermore, amid circling reports that the winning team were awarded a trip to the Petronas University in Kuala Lumpa, Khartoum’s victory prize was not revealed. This further fuelled the claims that the results and rewards for success were prearranged.

 The week long debate competition was a microcosm of Sudan. At its worst Sudan is a place where a corrupt mentality reigns. This corruption has two guises: an explicit corruption, embodied by malpractices such as the embezzlement of public money, and an implicit corruption, frequently misinterpreted as ‘part of Sudan’s culture’. While explicit corruption is condemned far and wide (even by those who engage in its practices), implicit corruption is seen as commonplace, characteristic of a natural way of things. Far from criticizing or questioning the existence of the latter, people accept, even cherish it. Above all implicit corruption is manifested by the dearth of a standard through which authority can be held to account. It was the absence of any standard, checks or balances through which, at the very least, the judging and organizing committee could be held to justify their decisions that blighted the duration of the competition. In the grand-scale of things a few misgivings about a school level debate competition may seem insignificant. Nonetheless such nonchalant attitudes, manifested through the blind, unquestioned acceptance of those in authority (which often means the old or charismatic) is part of a wider inability to check and challenge the conduct of the powerful.