11/20/2004

"Does anyone have the answer?"

Blank stares...

"Does anyone know the answer?"

Blank stares...Crickets...

"Does anyone understand the question?"

Blank stares...Crickets...'Bueller?'

Welcome to Model School, week one.

After returning from site visit, we moved to N'Djamena the following Sunday, to begin practical teacher training, Model School, in public and private high schools throughout the city. This was our first experience of what Chadian classrooms would truly be like, and so far the results have ranged from fun and stimulating, to absolutely brutal.

Teaching, no matter what country you happen to be in, is a difficult thing to do, and do well, but I can't help but think working as an English teacher in Chad is especially difficult. Between the utter lack of resources, merciless heat and dust, classrooms with 100+ students, and the generally abysmal level of English, this is not an easy place to be a professeur. In the public schools, the students have no textbooks– each assignment is copied onto the board by the teacher, often taking up to half the class time, and recopied by students into their notebooks.

I've been teaching at Lycée Feminin, an all-girls school with more than 2000 students from 7-12th grade (or equivalent). By Chadian standards, the school is surprisingly nice, which makes it only slightly worse than the facilities in the most blighted part of inner city America. The road to the school is typical for N'Djamena, meaning unpaved, filled with burning trash piles and animals, gigantic potholes, and the occasional pickup barreling by in the other 'lane.' The school itself is an art-deco adventure, three buildings of two and three stories painted pale pink with curved roofs. Outside the main gate, kids mill around and local women sell beignets, the fried doughnuts that Chadians seem to live off of, along with boule and okra sauce. In a case of misplaced hopes, the school was wired for electricity, although nobody seemed to notice that there was not a single electric line nearby. In a way it's almost more depressing, to see dust-covered fluorescent lights, ceiling fans, outlets, and a computer in the front office, and know that they will never work.

In the Chadian system, the teachers move between classes, not the students. The students file in at Lycée Feminin at 7:15, and remain in the same hot, dusty room for five hours at a time. But unlike the bleary-eyed students in American high schools, the girls here have likely already been up for two or three hours, making food for their husbands (many are married), gathering water, cleaning, and all the other typical Chadian chores that are simply accepted as 'Women's Work.' It's amazing to think that any of them even make it to classes to begin with. Given the immense burden that most of these young women have, it isn't especially surprising that homework is almost never done, and the level of English is atrociously low. I've been teaching higher-level courses so far, and to listen to the students speak, you would think you were in the first week of Foreign Language 101. I truly believe that these students have the ability to learn, but the system that they have been educated in has slowed their progress at every turn.

In Chad, as well as much of the rest of French-speaking Africa, students are taught that teachers are the ultimate authority figure, that they should be treated with a great deal of respect. In a sense, I agree with that- teachers do have a knowledge that students don't, and it would be impossible to run a classroom without a sense of who is in charge and who isn't. On the other hand, when students are so frightened by their teachers that they cannot respond in a class, it presents a major problem. Students are simply not taught to think for themselves, it seems– when I've tried to elicit a simple response, you would think I was asking the students to get up and dance, sing, or do something else embarrassing- all I'm looking for is a sentence. Some of it may simply be me though- it's not every day that a nasarra just shows up and starts talking at you in English, and for a roomful of Chadian teenage girls, I can see why it might be nerve-racking.

I'm just glad they couldn't see how nervous I was though. I'd taught briefly at 'micro-school' in Darda, under the trees with nine students, but this was the first time I'd ever stood in front of an entire class, with a chalkboard and a lesson. As I walked in, the students jumped to their feet, and the 50 students practically blew me back out the door with a 'GOOD MORNING TEACHER!' I replied good morning, and asked how they were doing...

'WE ARE FINE!'

Wow.

The students are simply conditioned to respond back to the teachers as though they were in boot camp, and nobody seemed to have taught them anything more than basic greetings. Even if they weren't FINE, would they be able to tell me? What if they were HAPPY, SAD, or ANGRY?

Considering how loud they obviously can be, it made it even more frustrating when it's impossible to get anyone to say anything. When I would call on someone, they would usually bury their head in their desk, burst out laughing, or mumble something so inaudible that I wouldn't be able to understand it had I been standing next to them. I'm glad I had the chance to see it now, so I'll at least have some idea of what to expect when I head to Gounou-Gaya to begin teaching for real. It's frustrating but exciting at the same time, and hey, that plays right into the original Peace Corps slogan- maybe this will be the 'Toughest Job I'll Ever Love.'

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