Pain

November 5, 2010

I do not really know how to begin to tell this tale.  In our world it would not make sense.  Here in Tanzania, it is the way it is.  I am so angry but there is no one to rage against.  I am frustrated and disappointed, but the solution is out of my hands.  I can see and I can feel pain, but there seems little that I can do to ease it.  No one understands.  I am alone.

My students began to return on Tuesday, the first day of the new term.  However, there were only a few so I did not teach.  Wednesday morning the students gathered on the parade ground for morning assembly. After singing the national anthem, the headmaster began berating the form VI students for their poor mock exam scores.  He told them that they were not being serious.  Here at Mkuu they had everything that they needed to do well.  They had professional teachers and many resources.  (I do not believe that we are working at the same school).  My PCM (physics, chemistry, and advanced math) students have one professional teacher: me.  This past term they have had a temporary teacher to help them with mathematics, but now he has gone to university.  They had a temporary physics teacher from university for about two or three weeks, and then he stopped coming to school.  Even in America, where we truly do have abundant resources and qualified teachers, many students find these subjects difficult to master.

After assembly, I went to the classroom.  My students were huddled in a group sharing one book.  Only about a third of the class had returned.  They were all very solemn as I entered the room.  I greeted them, and then I told them that the headmaster was wrong.  I knew that each and every one of them was serious about their future.  I praised them for their efforts to learn the material on their own.  Then I wrote the performance scores and rankings on one board.  On another I wrote “Why?” and on the third board I wrote “What can we do?”  When I turned to face them, I saw their pain, their discouragement, and their fear.  Some had tears streaming down their faces.  For the others, their eyes were glistening with tears that they refused to shed.  What good would it do?  This is Tanzania: the land where hopes and dreams die early in life.  I knew that I had to encourage them.  I must be the one to help keep their hope alive.  Tanzanians are not accustomed to being critical of authority, but I finally managed to make them understand that they were free to speak their mind.  They should not be afraid.  I could not help unless I knew what was needed.  What did they want?  They wanted teachers.  They wanted books, not just question and answer review books, but textbooks that would help them understand the concepts.  They wanted more in class assessment so that they would know how they were doing before taking the exam.  They wanted more practice doing practicals, especially in physics.  They wanted the opportunity to learn.

The next day I was planning to go to Moshi, so I told my students to write a list of the books that they would like to have.  They were afraid to write any because they said that they were much too expensive.  I reassured them that I only wanted the list.  I would not buy more than I could afford.  They gave me a list of three books: two physics and one math.  I visited every bookstore I could find in Moshi (four, and one I went to twice), and was only able to purchase two books.  I bought one copy of each of the physics books for a total of 100,000 shilings. (a bit less than $100).  I could not find the math book.  One shop said that they would order one, and it would be here next week, but I will not hold my breath.  Two books for 19 kids, but I guess it is a start.  My students were very grateful for the two I bought. 

I talked to the second masters and to the academic assistant about the possibility of having guest teachers from other schools come on the weekends to do practicals and to teach concepts.  I would be willing to pay if the school could not.  They liked the idea but said that it would be very difficult to find a good physics or math teacher who would be willing to come.  I will continue to follow-up with that, but for now, I guess all they have is me.  I hope I am enough.

Now that I have vented about that situation, maybe I can tell a sadder story without crying.  While in Moshi yesterday, Francis, a Tanzanian friend, called and said that there had been a riot at Shauritanga.  Students were angry about the food, the headmaster, and several other things.  Teachers had demanded their pay.  Students and teachers had walked out.  Boys had thrown stones.  Girls had stood on the hill and made noise.  The police had been called.  Francis' two nieces and Diana are students there, but I do not think he knows that I also have a child there, Yudathade.  I try to keep that quiet.

When we got off the bus and could actually hear, Cheryl called Francis to find out more details.  He said that the problem was over and students had gone back to class.  Knowing that Francis sometimes exaggerates problems, we went on with our day.  That evening, Cheryl called me and said that she had asked Diana about the day's events, and Diana told her that Yuda was “mbaya.”  She was not sure what Diana really meant by that, so I had her speak to Aggie.  Apparently Yuda had been beaten by the police but was ok.  Aggie suggested that I go to Shauritanga the next day to see Yuda.  I thought that was a very good idea.

 It had rained heavily during the night, and it was raining again, as I began walking to Shauritanga.  I resigned myself to the fact that I might have to walk the entire 6 or 7 miles to the school because buses going in that direction are scarce in the morning and all the mud would not help. However, I had not gone far when I saw a bus coming.  I did the whale tail flip of my hand but it passed by.  Then it stopped!  The konda motioned me to hurry, “njoo mzungu!”  (sometimes being mzungu does help).  It was standing room only, but that was ok.  It would get me to Shauritanga much faster than I could walk. 

When I arrived at Shauritanga, I went to sign in with the guard at the gate.  He asked me who I was there to see, so I said “the matron.”  He directed me to the main office.  A small group was gathered there outside the office.  The matron greeted me and asked if she could help me.  I said that I had come to see Yuda, because I had heard that there was a problem at the school the day before.  I said that I would have called, but it is difficult for me to understand kiswahili on the phone.  She told me that there had been a small problem but it had been resolved.  Yuda was fine.  Some students had refused to eat their food.  They wanted rice every day.  What did I think about that?  I made some kind of reply, and then asked to see Yuda again.  I said that I had heard that some boys had been beaten by the police, and I wanted to make sure that Yuda was ok.  She reassured me that Yuda had not been beaten.  He was fine.  Finally, tired of her stalling, I insisted that I see Yuda, so she sent a student to get him.

I watched Yuda come across the yard, walking very gingerly on his feet.  When he arrived, he greeted me, but continued to stand.  After several urgings, he sat on the bench.  The matron said, “See, he has not been beaten.  He is fine.  The police would not beat the small ones.”  I said, “Then what has happened to his eye?”   One eyelid was swollen and there was a small cut near his eyebrow.  She said that he must have hit it on something.  I asked Yuda if he had been beaten and he looked away and said, “no.”  I did not believe him.  I said, “Yuda, take off your shoes.”  He tried to resist.  “No madam, I am fine.”  “Yuda, take off your shoes.”  He did as he was told, and he also rolled up his pant legs.  His knees and skinny little legs were dark blue.  His legs were shaking as I looked at and felt the bottoms of his feet.  They were hot to the touch.  I also wondered about his back and bottom, but did not want to embarrass him anymore.  I asked him to tell me what had happened.  He promised that he had not been involved in the rebellion.  He had not been throwing rocks, but he was standing nearby with some others watching the commotion.  However, when the police came, he got scared and ran.  The police caught him and beat him.  They beat him on the feet.

My poor Yuda!  He is just a child!  How could the police beat this small, sweet child?  I felt so bad.  I had sent him to Shauritanga so that he would be safe from the dangers of his homeplace, and now he had been beaten here.  I sat with him awhile and was able to talk quietly with him while the adults were preoccupied.  The matron had kept insisting that he had not been beaten, even while I was inspecting his wounds.  Maybe saying it out loud repeatedly would make it true.  I asked him again, “I want the truth Yuda, were you beaten?”  He tried to look away, but I held his face.  He whispered, “Yes Madam, I was beat.”  I gave him a gentle hug and asked him if he was afraid.  Did he want to come home with me now?  He said, “No;” he wanted to remain at Shauritanga.  Exams begin Monday.  He was not afraid.  He would come soon, after exams.  We sat there side by side, Yuda a little closer than normal.  “You are sure Yuda?”  “Yes Madam, I am sure.”  I slipped him a few 1000 shilings and told him, ok, he could go back to class.  He stood up, and I saw him wince.  He hugged me and in an effort to show me that he really was ok, he tried to run back to class.  He did not go far.  He turned and said, “Madam, do not tworry.  It is not so bad.  Do not tworry.”

After he had gone, the matron sat down beside me.  I had been doing my best to speak kiswahili all morning, but she said she understood English.  It would be ok to speak my native tongue.  Maybe to placate me, she told me that Yuda is a good boy.  She has never heard him complain about anything.  She has never seen him be disrespectful or break any rules.  She talks to him sometimes and encourages him, because she knows that he has nothing.  He knows why he is here.  Then she said that if he was beaten, he was only beaten a little.  Others were beaten much worse.  I asked her to give him something for pain and to let me know if he did not improve.  She said “no problem, in one, two, five days, he would be fine again.”

I was angry.  I was sad.  I was frustrated and disappointed.  But I knew I would not get anywhere if I continued to press the issue of whether or not Yuda had been beaten.  Besides, I already knew the answer.  I had seen with my own eyes.  What recourse did I have?  File a complaint with the police?  They had done the beating.  Complain to the school authorities?  They denied that it had happened.  Talk to my fellow teachers?  They are Tanzanian.  This is their life.  They laughed when I told them.  It happens all the time.  Shauritanga is not unusual.  Why should I be upset?  What do we do with unruly students in America? 

I caught a bus right outside the gate.  It actually stopped without me signaling.  I found a seat in the back.  Shida kubwa nyingi hapa Tanzania.  (There are many big problems here in Tanzania).  My heart was heavy.  I felt tears run down my cheek.  I looked out the window and saw water falling from the sky.  Even God was crying.