El Messelemiya Higher Secondary School for Boys: # 2
-2-
Teaching
Teaching in Sudan is not the chore that it has become in some schools in England. A rapport is very soon established and the class polices itself. An English voice is something to be heard and enjoyed. An English voice attempting a simple Arabic phrase is hilarious and the uproar that was caused by my trying to say, ‘Sabah al kheer’ (Good morning) probably disturbed my neighbours in their classrooms. The clamor unnerved me until I realized it was not malicious but congratulatory and was no threat to my authority in class.
Once the class has settled down, after much clanking of the rough, iron chairs on the stone floors, the pupils are quiet enough with any talk coming from one boy helping his neighbour understand what the ‘ustaz’ is saying. Like schoolboys everywhere there are those who can do the work easily and there are those who find it more difficult.
There is no streaming here and the brighter students sit in the same classroom as those who are less fortunate. Knowing where to pitch the lesson is the prime difficulty here. Some boys speak a variety and level of English that would suffice in any English town or village, while others can barely utter a few words.
Usually, the boys’ ability is reflected by where they sit in the classroom; the keener, more proficient ones sit at or near the front, while those who are not quite so keen or able sit at the back. I say ‘usually’ for one of my brighter students, Mohammed Karmella, a tall boy of nineteen, sits in this pack who are perhaps happier with Maths and Physics than they are with English.
When things are not going as well as I hoped, up pops Mohammed Karmella and gives me the response I have been tearing my hair out to obtain. The rest will get the idea and soon their shining, black faces will light up with understanding.
When I am pining for news of my family, when I am feeling a bit homesick, when I am hot and bothered, up pops Mohammed Karmella or Sufian and things don’t seem so bad after all. The heat, the flies, and the chalk that crumbles to dust the instant it touches the blackboard, all pale into insignificance and I settle down to teach.
Robert L. Fielding
Teaching
Teaching in Sudan is not the chore that it has become in some schools in England. A rapport is very soon established and the class polices itself. An English voice is something to be heard and enjoyed. An English voice attempting a simple Arabic phrase is hilarious and the uproar that was caused by my trying to say, ‘Sabah al kheer’ (Good morning) probably disturbed my neighbours in their classrooms. The clamor unnerved me until I realized it was not malicious but congratulatory and was no threat to my authority in class.
Once the class has settled down, after much clanking of the rough, iron chairs on the stone floors, the pupils are quiet enough with any talk coming from one boy helping his neighbour understand what the ‘ustaz’ is saying. Like schoolboys everywhere there are those who can do the work easily and there are those who find it more difficult.
There is no streaming here and the brighter students sit in the same classroom as those who are less fortunate. Knowing where to pitch the lesson is the prime difficulty here. Some boys speak a variety and level of English that would suffice in any English town or village, while others can barely utter a few words.
Usually, the boys’ ability is reflected by where they sit in the classroom; the keener, more proficient ones sit at or near the front, while those who are not quite so keen or able sit at the back. I say ‘usually’ for one of my brighter students, Mohammed Karmella, a tall boy of nineteen, sits in this pack who are perhaps happier with Maths and Physics than they are with English.
When things are not going as well as I hoped, up pops Mohammed Karmella and gives me the response I have been tearing my hair out to obtain. The rest will get the idea and soon their shining, black faces will light up with understanding.
When I am pining for news of my family, when I am feeling a bit homesick, when I am hot and bothered, up pops Mohammed Karmella or Sufian and things don’t seem so bad after all. The heat, the flies, and the chalk that crumbles to dust the instant it touches the blackboard, all pale into insignificance and I settle down to teach.
Robert L. Fielding
posted by Justice @ 1:24 AM
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