Greetings all from the lovely highlands of Mbeya. I have been a bit lax on my blog entries of late, but there's been a lot going on and it's difficult to sit down and clear it all out from my head as frequently and as meaningfully as I'd like. The second term is going along in its average manner. It's not clear exactly how many teachers we'll be losing to the universities this season (they'll be returning to study) but at least two and maybe as many as five. I'll keep on plugging away at school affairs and keep on teaching physics and tending the computer lab. I was excited to hear from my form II students that the physics Mock Exam that they took on the 28th of this month was "not very hard." My best students said it was downright "rahisi." I told them that was a good sign and the reason why I have them busting their butts on my home works and tests. I think they see the method to the madness.
Last week was especially taxing. On Tuesday the 19th the students held a little protest. The day before, students were particularly quiet and tired in class and when I asked why, they complained that they hadn't eaten hardly anything since lunch the previous day. In many Tanzanian schools it sometimes happens that school funds dry up or are used up mysteriously before the end of the school term. When this happens food is one of the first things to go haywire. Part of the problem lies in school fees not being paid on time by the students or not at all. This is why there are often large groups of students absent from school. Anyway, the next day after I heard students weren't being fed enough was Tuesday. Rice day-- for lunch, instead of the usually ugali, which is the common stable, corn flour and water mixed to a stiff but smooshy lump and beans the students get rice and beans. On that day, that the rice was delivered late and students were told that they would eat ugali for lunch and rice would be cooked for dinner. Well, this didn't sit well with the students, and the leaders among them saw a chance to "stick it to the man," so to speak. From my house at the top of the hill, I could hear a rising tide of young female voices like a stampede. I decided I would head down to the office to and investigate on the way. A large group of students were situated on either side of the roadway some holding sticks, chanting and singing "sisi wasichana, tuna weza." Teacher who tried to command the students to move into the dining hall were jeered at in what I thought was a humorous display of young spirit. I have heard stories of how students elsewhere had razed their entire school when school issues were not dealt with satisfactorily. So as a crowd of students enveloped me, I said what I felt. "I think its good to express your views to teachers, but don't destroy your school." In one voice (TZian students somehow speak in unison without warning) they said "hatutaki."Knowing that they probably meant no real harm I continued on my way. When I got down to the office I found 10 students hiding out in the computer room. "They said they'd beat us if we went to eat or went to study in the class rooms," I was told. Other teachers had met in the assistant headmaster’s office and were discussing actions to take. I was told that rice had arrived and was being cooked but the students were still not cooperating. I asked if there was an action plan if the students got violent. "Girls can't do that," they said first, and when I pushed the issue, they said students who did so would be chased from the school. I'm not sure about the mechanism, but about an hour later, the students had quieted down and eaten.
The next day...A fire bomb may as well been thrown through the window of the discipline masters office. Beginning in the morning, a group of students were made to stand 50 paces apart in full sun, presumably until they tattled on the ring leaders of the civil disobedience that had taken place. After, teaching 40 minutes of my first double period of the day, I was interrupted by two student teachers (new arrivals this term). They told me that they wanted to begin the interrogation. I asked if it could be done after the lesson. They said it would take all day. I asked for 5 minutes to conclude. The 5 minutes passed and I asked if there were questions. As I neared the door a girl lobbed one about the rheostat we had been discussing. I began to answer the question when the door to the class opened to reveal the student teachers waiting impatiently. I continued to deliver my answer to one of the precious few questions I get per week, when I heard "mwalimu!" and impatient clicks of the tongue from the doorway. Now, there have been many instances when I have had reason to speak curtly to my fellow teachers but mostly I keep my lips sealed for the sake of preserving the status quo (extremely important). This time, however, the dude could not abide, and as I left the class room I said in a quivery voice, (anger does that to me) "don't ever disrespect me in front of my class ever again, when a student has a
question I mean to answer it. Sorry about your investigation."
I knew the students would be beaten, but I also knew that no teaching would get done for the rest of the day, so I took off to Tukuyu to print a practice exam (pre Mock) that I had planned for the Form IIs. That evening, when I returned, I went to announce to the form IIs that the test was ready and to establish a time to do it. I also went to find out how the investigation went. "Please, teacher we can't do the test tomorrow, our hands won't write and tomorrow the punishment will continue." Fine. On my way to the computer room Martha Mgaya a form IV and former school leader asked me if I had any medicine for a student. My god, the girls wrist looked as though it had been broken it was so swollen she could barely move her fingers. Then another girl with such an arm came to me. Then more and more were asking for "dawa." I zipped home and brought some aspirin. Two of the hardest cases got 4 pills each, 2 for the next morning. The growing horde of others got turned down. There wasn't nearly enough to go around. I felt awful for what had happened and that I hadn't been there to do a thing about it (not that I necessarily could). I resolved to be present for the second round to follow.
What followed was a sort of kangaroo court. Students whose names were mentioned were brought one by one in front of the teachers and the discipline master (also the assistant headmaster) and asked questions like: "why did you sneer at teachers," Why didn't you go to eat lunch? "Who told you to gather outside the dining hall?" etc. These were the questions asked in between beatings. When each girl was called, she first had to make her way past two teachers by the doorway holding sticks. These teachers would take a few surreptitious whacks at the student usually at their backs or sides. Upon entering the room the students were made to stand in chalk circle and face one direction, failure to understand this resulted in more whacks. Now, it is nothing new to see students hit with the fimbo, this day was different however, the day of the gathering, teachers had lost the total control that they usually exercise over the students. In addition, the students were plain disrespectful in the way that they sneered at one teacher in particular, who had earlier been accused by other students of sleeping with their classmate (that case came before the whole teaching body but was dismissed on the fact that the principle prosecutor was "a trouble maker"). Rather quickly the whacks with the fimbo were punctuated by hard handed slaps to the face and side of the head. One girl came through the door and was immediately slammed on the floor by the teacher accused of sleeping with students afore mentioned. Girls were beaten when they were down, kicked, kneed, all the while being interrogated; wide eyed and terrified they found it difficult to answer.
It was not merely the violence of the whole affair that was difficult to bear (although my adrenaline levels spiked several times during the 5 hour ordeal), but it was the particular relish that the teachers seemed to get out of asserting their authority in such a way. Girls who were fast to tears were scoffed at. When they didn't stand properly and were hit, they were called idiots and more laughs were garnered. Many of the girls were dehumanized before they were even asked any questions. "This girl", the second headmaster would begin, "is an orphan. She has come to Kayuki and has been nothing but trouble. She's been a whore; can't you see that she will always be country trash?" Nearly all of the instigators of the Tuesday sneering were orphans. One by one, some of my best students (the free thinking ones) were brought up in front of all the teachers, called whores, and lesbians and the like and beaten into submission. Three days earlier, not a single person or object was physically harmed during the gathering that sparked this whole mess.
All the while I constantly had thoughts of leaving the country. How could I work with any of these people again after knowing what they are capable of. After knowing that the violence perpetuated that day was justified in the minds of all the participants except for myself. How could I forgive myself for not having stood on some sort of moral high ground and prevented it from happening? Fuck. That kept coming into my mind. How fucked up will I be when this is over?
Oh, it messed with me all right. I wasn't sure whether I should call Peace Corps right then and ask for a school transfer or early termination or wait it out until mid-service conference. These thoughts ran through my mind again and again, but I also thought about how other Tanzanian schools operate in a similar way and there have been even worse horror stories. I thought about how leaving would show all the Tanzanians I had met that, indeed, Americans are far different from them and we cannot be expected to work together. I thought about the two year commitment that I had made to myself, to finish my service abroad.
After the kangaroo court ended, and I was able to walk out of the computer room which was now tainted with the days events I was finally able to breathe fresh and begin to compose myself. A conversation about free will and the laws of Tanzania with one of the new teachers helped to calm me and express how I felt that violence begot violence and that maybe the girls would listen if we explained that student protests were feared legitimately because so many other schools (boys schools or coed) had been destroyed by student riots; that we could have turned the whole process into a learning experience, without the use of brute force. Then, when I saw the smiling face of a student who had been beaten as she carried a bucket of water into the office building, I realized that the whole thing was ridiculous. No one had been killed, but from my perspective, a horrible atrocity had occurred that day. In reality, similar things happen every day in Tanzania and countless other countries in the world. In reality, people are summarily executed for inciting a protest in some places in the world. In reality, life is f*ing violent for most people. The fact that I come from a middle class American bubble made the whole affair so ugly. The fact that I want to become a doctor and therefore bear only tenderness in my heart for all human kind also made it difficult, but don't doctors deal with the consequences of violence all the time? The girls had survived that day and most of them would continue studying at Kayuki after completing other punishments and suspensions. Despite having words with the second headmaster, there was nothing else I could do in that situation short of disrespecting the way that everyone else thought the issue should be handled, and jeopardizing my work here. My leaving wouldn't help any of those girls.
What it comes down to is, yes it is difficult as hell to see people commit real, violent acts against others (though we enjoy it in the movies), but to be able to come out of it and say ok, that was awful for me, but I don't want to walk away from the situation or culture that produced it. I would rather mull it over rationally, level it philosophically, and decide whether or not we can continue living and working together. It is somewhat irksome for those would be moral stalwarts who always "stand up for what's right," and believe me it leaves a sick feeling in the stomach sometimes, but it is also what makes a diplomat. It is about understanding that there are different ways of living through a day everywhere you go, looking the most foreign of those in the face and coming out of the whole thing with a deeper appreciation for this little mess we call existence. If you don't come out of it with appreciation, there's always the depression rout, which I considered but decided would be counter productive. Suffice it to say I recently finished The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.
PS. My memory card reader is on the fritz, so pictures haven’t been making their way to the wide web. I’ll see a man about a usb cable.
