|
May 28, 2010
“Feedom is love; teacher is book.” Monday morning, instead of bringing me to Sitara II for classes Jamshid and Andeisha first needed to be dropped off at Mehan orphanage for a meeting. When we arrived I knew something was up. The porch and courtyard were empty. I wanted to retrieve some materials I’d left in my classroom, so I climbed the steps and removed my flip-flops. The doors to the orphanage were closed. This almost never happens. The latch was a little stuck, so I swung the doors open a little briskly and entered under the momentum of my push. The high ceiling of the orphanage was suddenly filled with rose petals, red and pink and white, floating down upon my head, and in front of me sixty or so of the Mehan girls cheered. “Happy Teacher’s Day!” One after another roses where thrust into my arms, hand-made cards, silk flowers, balloons. One balloon burst and confetti scattered everywhere. Andesha was there taking photos, and to the side Jamshid. They smiled. I felt spoiled and self-conscious. I basked in the attention, too, but secretly I wanted to defer it all toward the husband and wife team who are true heroes. Slowly we walked en-mass up to the second floor and entered the library. The room had been completely decorated, and a table decked out with flowers, a large cake and candles. I was directed to sit behind the cake, a party hat was placed on my head, and three-year old Marwa, (who was actually born in Mehan orphanage) snuck up beside me and jumped into my lap. Together we blew out the candles. Parwana turned the music on and immediately a round of dancing began. Just then an NBC News team entered the library: Jamshid and Andeisha were not making things up. They had scheduled an important meeting concerning NBC’s desire to help with security. Three huge, muscle bound security people entered along with two directors of the Kabul news bureau. What they thought of this middle aged American in baggy clothes, a pointed hat on his head at the center of a room full of laughter and silliness is beyond my imagining. The girls wasted no time in dragging me out to the center of the room. They remember well the times we all danced into the night a year ago, nights of isolation and strangeness in the midst of this desperate city. I did not care what the news team thought. I only cared to show the children how happy I was. Kawka Yasin entered. In his hands was a gift from the staff and children of Mehan. I opened the red Christmas paper wrapping, joyful and at this point flashing upon the ten-year old still lodged in my heart, the boy who had been showered with love from his family, a mother and father, the child so fortunate as to have been born in America, comforted, gifts piled high on the dinner table, tuna-noodle casserole, a board game called RISK, a nice gold and blue rugby shirt, a Spitfire model airplane kit. The gift my Afghan family chose for me was a hand-stitched outfit, more Afghan than any other clothes I have, a light pastel violet such as the clouds appear just before dawn, or sometimes I remember in Alaska those summer nights that ended just as soon as they had arrived. Shagofa took my hand. She had in my absence over the winter been practicing the swing dance I had taught her. Then Sadaf wanted to give it a try. Then it was time for the real dancers, Parwana, Pashtana and Farida who brought with them from the orphanage in Pakistan a flavor of Indian culture. One after another each of the children either took her turn or was dragged out onto the dance floor by her teasing friends. Reluctantly it was then I took my leave, as the meeting upstairs had to do with my as well as Andeisha’s security. It was a sober meeting, difficult to tolerate while one floor below roars of laughter and cheering continued to emanate from the library. A seasoned ex-special forces officer from England asked an array of questions and hinted his professional opinions. He took all our cellular phone identification numbers that enable the security company to track each phone’s location even if it is turned off and its little memory card is removed. This was such an abstract protocol, given my mood. I only wanted to get back to the party. This business of being American, a prime target, annoyed me. In my mind I am only a volunteer with a simple story: I teach twelve different groups of children, ages 7 to 17. I stumbled into their lives, and we changed one another. I left, not able to clarify if we would ever meet again. When I returned, a contract was signed across our hearts. There is a level of trust between us now. On this day it was fathomed. Lunch was served and I left the meeting to join the girls who had gathered around a plastic red mat on the first floor. I feel safe around this mat, one knee tucked and the other bent beneath my chin. I feel most comfortable. Members of Mehan's staff, Nasifa and Laila served us rice and chicken. We told some of the same old jokes. At every opportunity I reinforce an atmosphere of storytelling, but also story-making; observing elements of any experience that can and will go into future tales that help to define our lives, direct our awareness and reinforce the power of love over fear. I take pride in every teacherly moment of every day, but on this day I eventually came to think not of myself, but of all the real teachers who brave the dangers of their profession here among fundamentalists, as well as the stigma of being just above barbers and carpenters, the lowest rungs of society. Teachers in Afghanistan are the poorest class of professionals in the country. They make a salary of $100 a month. Oftentimes the government fails to pay them even this meager fee. It requires the teachers to collect from a (corrupt?) bank. To do this, the teachers are required to open accounts, whereupon they stand in line all day. When they have finally opened an account they find their salaries have not been deposited. The emphasis on spending millions of public dollars to train and equip police and soldiers seems more aimed to protect the established (corrupt?) government than to establish a democratic society to protect in the first place. Education, especially higher education, has been thoroughly neglected by the international community and the Karzai government. Instead, it has primarily been left to the fraudulent business people looking to make a killing, opening “private” schools and training centers where young Afghans spend their last dollar for marginal and often meaningless certificates. It is not an innovative idea to invest in people, but in reality it remains only a comforting idea because in the short run there is little money to be made in it and there are no guarantees to investors. Contractors, construction companies, consulting companies, military supply companies, security companies, trucking companies, fuel companies, aide distribution bureaucracies… these are the gears of modern nation building, not education. These things look good on paper and in power-point presentations. But in reality while only 8% of the Afghan population actually benefits, and the bank accounts of foreigners are fattened up, thousands of children are fast becoming a population of young adults susceptible to the rhetoric of illiterate, angry, ideologues. The argument that there are no jobs for educated Afghans is a deflection. Case in point: teachers. Look at what Afghan teachers are willing to do to continue their profession, if only because they know it is good for their country. The same will be true for Afghan reporters, engineers, doctors and lawyers. These were the thoughts running through my mind, the desire running through my veins. Why, why has so little been invested in people? How else, I ask, is a nation to be built? The answer to this is logical, that nation-building was not in the beginning nor is it now the aim of the international community of governments. The implications of this admission, I believe, are harrowing. In this respect it is not so complicated a question as to why I must teach, even if I have doubts about my ability or the fruits of my labor. All other reasons have trailed off into the stories I will tell. Freedom is love; teacher is book. Dariush put that exclamation point to Teacher’s Day on the wall in the new orphanage for older boys. It was there I spent that afternoon. Once again the exploding confetti, the flowers, the cards. This time I received a pair of stylish shiny black leather sandals, to go with my new Afghan clothes. The boys don’t yet have a radio or television, so Farid Gul grabbed a water cooler and played it like a tabla drum. We danced as if dervishes working ourselves into a trance. And we laughed. At times I feel so thoroughly inadequate, inept, and wonder if I am deluded, needlessly spending what remains of my health on a life restricted by my identity in a country with wheels too large to comprehend turning regardless of my efforts. Unlike last year this is not some sort of adventure. There is nothing to prove to anyone, not to myself, not even to the children. Yet here I am. There is no greater gift than to be appreciated for the work you do. To be so completely the center of attention while trying to be as invisible as humanly possible is at first glance paradoxical, but then again that is what any teacher worth her or his weight in salt will strive for day after day, year after year. The children have signaled to me a clear message, and I must in the end take their word for it. Perhaps I am here, after all, because this is who I am.
Please log in to post a comment!
|
