Farchana
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Kounungu
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One of the classrooms
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I
woke up on April 3rd in N’Djamena, and there was no question of where I
was! Africa: birds singing, a gentle breeze blowing, two mosquito
bites! A second trip to Chad, again with JRS – a gift. This time, a
journey with a purpose: the evaluation of the education projects in the
two camps where JRS works together with the local Caritas agency. My
task was to look at what is in already in place and to make
recommendations for the future of the program. But this did not take
away from the joy of being back in Africa, even for a brief visit… and
among refugees, who have evangelized me over the course of years in
ways that I never imagined.
It was evident in both camps
that this is the moment of transition, from emergency to
“normalization”. Not that life in a refugee camp is ever normal, but it
does settle down to a rhythm marked by food distributions, immunization
campaigns, and for children, in the routine of a school day. Mark
Raper, the former International Director of JRS, often said that a camp
is an evil place, because it was created by evil conditions. In
contrast with last year, it is clear that the refugees from Darfur have
“pitched their tents” in Chad. There are fewer of the precarious
dwellings of sticks and rags that signal the newly arrived. An
important occupation in one of the camps is the manufacture of
sun-dried bricks. Most homes boast not just a round enclosure for the
kitchen, but intricate entrances and even tables made of bricks and
mud. Women potters have a special place to work and sell their wares,
which they also take to the local weekly market. The water points,
although open only at certain hours, are not congested and no long
lines of jerrycans make the heat of tempers also rise. Children smile
again, and run to check if the white of my skin rubs off. Men say their
prayers, white robed, turbaned, faces hidden in desert garb. There are
few old people in the camps. Most did not make it across the border.
The multicoloured shawls of women give life to an otherwise drab
landscape. Life goes on, the added dimension of exile one more
challenge to face.
Primary schools have,
finally, “opened their doors”. During the first months, the urgent need
was to set up relationships, as people from different parts of Darfur
and from diverse ethnic groups found themselves suddenly “neighbours”
in an assigned camp. During the first phase, it was crucial to put up
physical structures for classrooms. In a corner of the earth where
there is no shade, it was necessary to put pressure on UN agencies to
provide tents to serve as classrooms. (Why, one wonders, did the case
have to be made? Isn’t it obvious that children can’t learn and
teachers can’t teach in the broiling sun, just sitting on sand? )
Construction of semi-permanent buildings of adobe with tin roofs has
finally received the green light from the powers that be. This was also
the phase of wrestling with questions of salaries (minimal), books (1
for 50 children), and shelters ( inadequate). Now JRS and Caritas
personnel need to attend to issues in education, as they impact the two schools. It is the moment to stress quality:
sound teaching practices, close follow-up of teachers ( most are
untrained), affirmative action on behalf of girls, attention to the
trauma that surfaces in the children (drawings give many a clue),
addressing questions of examinations and validation, of inclusion of
children with special needs….. Pre-schools are just beginning to gather
the small children, and many adults are taking the opportunity to learn
to read and write.
It is never easy to put in place
structures of education that address a variety of needs. It is even
more difficult in cases where one must take into account a low level of
education, as is the case of this refugee population. But teacher
training sessions are beginning, giving hope and skills to new
teachers. Negotiations with the Government of Sudan for validation of
examinations have begun, giving a glimmer of hope for further
education. JRS is contacting its people in Khartoum to follow up on the
question of school books. SOLU, the open learning distance program for
secondary education (on which the MOLU program in which I worked in
Malawi-Mozambique was modelled) was pioneered in Sudan, and could offer
possibilities of tutoring on some secondary subjects. But a statement
made by one teacher haunts me: “The Government does not want the
children of Darfur to become educated. So they keep the books from
reaching us.” And one wonders as the children struggle to learn in
stifling tents, “coming to school for what?”, when there is no headway
made towards a solution of the crisis in Darfur. One boy wants to be
president, one girl, a doctor. It is difficult to change customs and
attitudes while in exile. Refugees want to keep things “like at home”.
This attitude affects most the women and children, as early marriages
are common and excision is an essential cultural practice. However,
most of the youth we met were eager to open doors to new initiatives,
to learn French and English, dressmaking, how to make soap and pasta…
and play basket and volleyball. (And, could they please have a TV?)
More than once we were given sincere condolences: ”Sorry for Pope”. It
will not be the same people who will one day make their way back to
Darfur.
Not so long ago I had a heated
conversation with someone who felt that the photo on the Christmas
wishes sent from the Mother House could not possibly have been taken in
a refugee camp. “The boy is smiling and there is lots of space around
their shelter. People in camps are suffering and they live close
together”. I have learned that no two refugee situations are alike,
that there is no such thing as a typical camp…but most importantly,
that I cannot refuse a refugee the gift of his or her smile.
Yet,
I wonder as I reflect on this experience. I see Aysha and the picture
she drew of flowers and guns. “My country is paradise”, was the title.
What is it that can make a girl think of her country as Paradise after
all she has been through? What memories do children have? Are trees and
flowers stronger than guns? And a pre-school teacher who grieves her
husband: What songs can a young widow sing to small children? How can
she look after them with a sickly baby at her breast? What thoughts do
the old women weave as they learn the graceful strokes of the Arabic
script? I am grateful to have been of service- albeit small- hopefully
to pave the way for their return home, “Inshallah”, if God
wills.
23 April 2005
photos courtesy of Lolín Menéndez/JRS
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Kounungu, Chad
April 12, 2005
“My country is Paradise”,
wrote Aisha
as she drew
amid flowers
soldiers, helicopters, and guns.
A child’s fond remembrance
of a recent past?
Or a people’s deep memory
rooted in time-still frame
of home crafted in thatch and mud,
not torn canvas tent,
in villages, haphazard,
unfettered by rows,
where land yielded onions, and greens,
not just – grudgingly - bricks.
Today
children bear the weight of water
on small bent backs,
while elders grasp for a future
crafted by hands not their own.
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Lolín Menéndez
photos courtesy of Lolín Menendez/JRS
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