Unjust illiteracy

Almost everyday I walk into class and do one of the following. I might write a whole bunch of notes on the board. These notes could be about history, including names, places, things, and events far away that a Zambian has never heard about or seen. These notes could be about computers and technology, strange machines they’ve never used. These notes could be long and complicated English vocabulary words I found in our grade eight and nine textbooks.

If I don’t write notes, I hand out papers or books to read. This is a new development this term. We had a printer for a few weeks but then it broke. We now have 500 storybooks for the school to use. I occasionally photocopy some readings and multiple-choice questions at a local copy shop. The readings in the first chapter of the grade nine English textbook were about the history of radio, television, aircrafts, and modern kitchen appliances. They were all extremely Eurocentric. They were long readings, and they had lots of big words.

If I don’t hand out reading material, I might just start talking. I don’t talk like a Zambian. I have an accent. I use American English instead of British English. While I try everyday to talk slowly and use a mix of easy vocabulary that they will understand and advanced vocabulary so they can learn new words, I nonetheless use a complicated vocabulary my students are not used to. When I asked students to write about one difficult thing they encountered this semester. One student honestly wrote, “I could not understand Teacher Hannah. When she askes us if we understand, I just said yes.” True. Honest. A reality. I’m glad he wrote it. And it stings my heart.

I ask my students to read every day. Read these notes I wrote. Read this book I am giving you. Read this poem on the board. Read these homework questions. Read these directions for an exercise.

Everyday I ask my students to write. Write the answers to these questions. Write about this history topic. Write about the computer topic. Write about your life.

Every single day.

And every single day my students must feel so helpless. They must feel so frustrated. They must feel so exhausted. They must feel so bored.

Why would they feel this way?

Because they can’t read and write.

These students are in grade eight and nine, some are as old as seventeen years, and they can’t read and write.

Sometimes this is unfathomable to me. I barely remember a time I couldn’t read or write. I don’t know what its like to not have the means to express myself and understand the communication from others.

I’ve taught for two school terms in Zambia and in both terms it took me weeks to find out who was illiterate. Weeks. That is unacceptable.  I am failing these kids in so many ways.

Can you imagine what it feels like to be asked to read and write everyday and not know how to do it? I just imagine some of these students thinking, “Yeah, you want us to answer these questions. TEACH US TO READ. You want me to write a good essay question? TEACH ME TO WRITE!”

And I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to teach these kids to read and write. But there are so many of them and only one of me.

I am daunted by this grade nine test all of my students will have to take, either this year or next year. Some have already failed and are in grade eight or nine for the second time. This test will expect them to read and write at a grade eight and nine level. I’ve seen practice tests and they would give any American high schooler a challenge. And yet illiterate students take these tests in Zambia every year. And then they fail. And take many years to complete their education. Or they fail and drop out and continue living a life in poverty.

This world is so unjust. These kids want to read and write so badly. They want to succeed. They want to grasp opportunity. They show up to school everyday. Their eyes are on the board, a pen in their hands. Their hands are open to the world, ready to give themselves and work hard. But those hands remain empty. I give them notes and a few books, but it’s not enough. They don’t have books at home that could have helped them to learn to read at an earlier age. They don’t have books at home to teach them now.

What is it like to stare at a page of letters, knowing they mean something… knowing these words unlock the key to success, to a future, to understanding, to so many things? What is like to stare at those words…and unlock nothing, to understand nothing?

It’s messed up. This is messed up.

I’m failing. And if you are reading this I don’t need a whole bunch of emails, saying, oh Hannah, you are doing your best. You’ve given them so much in other ways…blah, blah, blah. I’m sure I would actually appreciate that very much, but instead I invite you to look at this situation and see that yes, I am failing. The challenges to teaching Zambian kids to read in urban poverty are staggering. I want you to see that and feel that with me. I want you see that this is unfair. And I want you see that it’s not just me failing. It’s society. It’s our world. We are failing so many kids everyday. People in this world are not getting their needs met, be it food or education. Why do we the kids with the most resources keep getting more? And the kids who need the most keep getting less?

Mr. Mugala

Devin, me, Rebecca, and Mr. Mugala 

Mr. Mugala was a great man. In the words of Reverend Phiri, he preached his own funeral sermon by his very life. Today I read scripture at his funeral and put a flower in his grave. I got to hug his grandson. I shed tears with his wailing wife, daughters, sisters, and grandchildren.

Mr. Mugala was the first Zambian to welcome me into his home. He and his wife and grandchildren welcomed the three YAVs into their rural, village home during our first week in the country. At 78 years old, he walked us up and down the beautiful rolling hills. He told us stories and myths from his village. He explained cultural practices we didn’t understand. He was good man. It only took me four days to see that.

I will forever remember his kindness and his warm, warm smile. Rest in peace.

Taking Home Trophies!

This past Thursday I got to relive my glory days. I was back at the starting line for a race. I was back on the court. In celebration of Zambia’s holiday called Youth Day, CCAP youth from Midlands Presbytery gathered at field on the campus of University of Zambia. I got to dust off the old running shoes (and by dust of I mean wipe off the mud of rainy season that cakes them) and run and shoot some hoops again.

I got to the football (soccer) pitch when the first heat of boys took off in a 400 meter dash. Immediately my heart was in my stomach and my adrenaline was pumping. I knew this feeling of squeamish excitement. The same butterflies used to visit me before a race or game began. Pretty soon it was time for me to race. I took off at a good pace and trailed slightly behind one girl in front of me. I lost some ground around the perpendicular turns (this was not real track but a rectangular field) and around the 200 meter mark the “tireds” set in. Not knowing if I could keep up the pace, I just kept on keeping on. The final turn was coming up. The last stretch. This was my sweet spot. Always has been. Hopefully always will. With a little over 100 meters to go, I turned on the gas and passed up my competition at about 50 meters to go!!!

I vividly remember my sister, Precious’s, distinct cheering as I made my final push.

Yes, I love racing. That hasn’t changed.

Next was netball. Not to be confused with basketball. I learned that lesson pretty quickly, although I also learned I couldn’t quit some of my basketball habits. Netball is a very popular game for women in Zambia. It is played on asphalt with two hoops and various lines on the ground that determine if a player is off sides. Only the one center player on each team has full range of the court and one other player, the shooter, always stays near the hoop.

Similar to basketball, the ball is thrown up in the air at the center of the court. But unlike basketball, once a player has the ball they must almost immediately pass the ball. At one point I thought I was showing off some awesome pivot moves, giving my teammates some time to get open, when I found out I had violated the rules and needed to pass the ball immediately after I had secured it. I quickly learned that my passing habits from basketball also needed to change. In basketball, low, fast passes are great to get the ball to an open teammate. In netball, one barely has enough time to find an open player so high, lofty passes are better to give your teammate time to jump or position themselves to get the ball.   These rules make for fast paced, scrappy game, and oh my, these ladies got into it. We played two halfs, each to seven points, and in the end Lusaka Central (my congregation—woot woot!) took the trophy home!

This was one of the most fun days I’ve had in Zambia. There is something special about playing sports. Other worries dissolve as you focus on the game. A hard race takes your breath away, but when your breath comes back the endorphins and pumping heart give you a feeling of healthy accomplishment. Playing netball was an awesome way to cross cultures. They were teaching me something new, and even graciously forgiving my mistakes. Whereas I often find myself hitting a language barrier, lost in Nyanja, Tombuka, or Bemba conversations I don’t understand, as sports players we communicated with simple language, body positions, smiles and high fives. When I scored my first point, I was so surprised I did this raised double fist thing in celebration, and let me tell you, everyone got a kick out of that.

I am very thankful for this opportunity to do something I love with the people I love here.

Muddy Toes

A few hours ago the mud was oozing between their toes. They held hands and giggled as they moved their feet ever so slightly so as to push the dark, gooey earth into the tiny spaces between the big toe and that next toe. The rains had finally stopped, for today at least, and the Zambian sun was poking through the clouds, attempting to evaporate the temporary lakes that sprout up around the compounds of Lusaka that time of year.

They both wore tattered clothes, perfect for playing. The kind that just invite you to jump in puddles, roll around in the dirt, and play catch with whatever garbage you can find. She had been wearing the garments since Tuesday, but his were fresh despite their appearance. He had just changed out of his school uniform.

While he learned his ABCs with Catholic sisters, she learned how to wash the mountains of clothes that gave their family work, but not a living wage. While he was mastering the Zambian National Anthem,  she was mastering the latest pop song from the slurred words of a neighbor drinking a fermented corn drink at the local one room pub. While he learned the days of the week, she learned that more people in the market on Mondays and Fridays meant more people to ask for money. While one had a round belly from plenty of nshima and relish, the other had a round belly from malnutrition. While he walked home with notebooks in his backpack, she walked home with her baby sister on her back, exhausted from being left to care for her all day.

But in that beautiful, muddy moment they stood the same, equal distances from each other’s front door. The open area between their homes was their playground, their meeting place…common ground.

Game on!

They splashed in puddles. They pulled their toy cars made out of paper alcoholic beverage containers. They jumped into the garbage pit behind the nearby school, painted blue, to scavenge for playthings. They chased each other through the big boys playing football. They told each other secrets as the woman in a brightly colored chitenge passed, muscles flexed, holding water on her head. They belted out songs about Jesus as they lay in the dirt, drawing pictures with sticks. They chased the chickens around his house and then they chased the chickens around her house. They joined a circle game with other children, holding hands, running, and chanting at the top of their lungs. They stood back to back to see who was taller, each stretching onto their tippy-toes, chins to the sky.

But it was no use.

They were the same.

Until the call…always from his big sister. She shouted his name, telling him to return home. He waved to her and turned to run.

It had gotten dark, but there was enough light to watch him bound the fifty yards into his sister’s waiting arms. A big wind whipped the unraveling hem of her dress and she felt a chill as she heard his wooden door slam. A soft thundering in the distance couldn’t cover up the rumbling in her stomach. Kicking stones as she walked, she returned home.

Nothing waited for her there. Her parents hadn’t paid the electric bills in months so she rummaged around to find a match and candle. With this slight illumination, she could see the charcoal brazier cold and unused. The table was empty, the cupboards bare as can be. Standing in her front doorway, she looked down the street filled with tiny snack shops and makeshift hair salons, looking for the familiar image of a woman walking with her wash. There was no sign of her mother.

Needing something to pass the time she wandered back to her playground, this time alone. A mangy-looking dog, who obviously had already had her share of pups, growled from the corner by the bore hole and water spicket. Wanting to get out its way, she kept walking until she found herself in front of a wooden door. His door.

She tip-toed toward it until her nose rested right in that miniscule channel between door and doorframe. Odors of Nshima, the Zambian staple food, and salty, oily, green relish wafted her way. And what else? She sniffed. Chicken. Definitely a nice plump village chicken, usually only saved for special occasions and holidays.

She heard an “amen”, and then the rush of water into a metal bowl, washing the hands of his family. Then there was the scraping of plates, picked up and passed around the table. She heard the clank of metal lids uncovering the delicacies within the tin dishes. She closed her eyes and started stroking the fingers of her right hand onto her palm, the familiar motion used to roll nshima in one’s hand before taking a bite. Hearty laughter from within woke her from her dream, causing her to jump and hit her head on the doorknob.

With one hand rubbing the newly sore spot on her skull, she cleared her throat and yelled in her high-pitched voice, “Odi!” This was the greeting yelled at Zambian entrances, asking for permission to enter. Again, she cried, louder this time, “ODI!”

The chatter from within hushed before his mother answered her, “Yeo!”

Slowly the door creaked and she stepped into the hallway lit up from the excess light of the nearby dining room. Pulling the green, fake silk curtain hung in the doorway, she immediately fell on her kneels before the wooden table. Six well-fed people stared back. Her eyes barely reached over the big piece of furniture, but her eyes still met his.

This, too, was a meeting place, but instead of hand in hand, she was knee to ground and he was raised above her on the comfy chair at the head of the table. Her mouth asked his mother for two kwatha, the equivalent of 30 cents, but her eyes stayed locked on his. They stared into each other eyes, remembering the warmth of the other’s hand and the cool of the mud on their toes. They used same eyes as before, but this time their places had changed. She waited expectantly.

Explanatory Note: This is a work of fiction inspired by my life here in Zambia.

Every few months or so a neighbor girl, whose mother helps wash our family’s clothes, knocks on our door at dinnertime. She kneels down in front of our table heaped with food and asks for money. When it happened this week, it struck me that this girl had just been playing with my host-brother a few hours ago. A short time ago they were just children, equal children, having fun outside. Then at dinnertime there was shift. He went to a table filled with food. She went to beg. I wonder how this makes each of them feel. How does it feel to come beg at your friend’s dinner table? How does it feel to be swallowing food but seeing your friend at her knees? Poverty is all around Zambia and the compounds, but I’m also struck by the interconnection of people at various levels of financial security. Those children coming from families that are doing pretty well—relatively no food insecurity, have bigger houses, even nice televisions—play in the same spaces and wear the same type of play clothes as the children coming from families who are living dangerously on the edge of survival. I imagine this type of close relationship to have its pain in apparent and felt inequality between friends (ie. episodes of begging at a dinner table). And yet, I wonder what transformation can come from these relationships. I wonder if affluent people might share more if they had children knocking on their door at dinnertime. Would it inspire sharing, community organizing and social change if our childhood friends weren’t just from our own economic sector of society, but included people from all sorts of backgrounds?