Before I started teaching at the local University about a month ago, I remember looking forward to my first day with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. While I myself am a health volunteer and therefore hadn’t had much experience in the Mozambican classroom, I had previously heard the horror stories from the education volunteers about the school system in this country: the rampant corruption, cheating, endless amounts of red tape within the administration, and so on.
You can imagine how relieved I was when, because of Sagrada Familia’s make-up and leadership, I had few run-ins with these kinds of morally objectionable situations that my colleagues have often discussed. At the same time, that is not to deny the fact that I have indeed had my ‘run-ins.’
The fact of the matter is that grade inflation is a problem. I’m not claiming that it is a frequent issue at the University, but I can say that many of my students have most definitely come from a background in which they are rewarded for what they frankly do not deserve. Of course, to speak from a cynical point of view, the situation makes more sense when the focus is on what’s at stake for the school. ‘The system is weak and the professors are poorly educated? Well, let’s compensate with boosting grades around the board.’ ‘If we’re turning out classrooms of kids with poor marks, then our school is ultimately going to look bad, right? Maybe if we just give them enough points they can pass on to the next grade and we can try again.’ Instead of fixing the problem at hand, it seems that the situation is merely given a band-aid.
As has been evidenced by my own classroom, the effects of such an education system can be crippling to the work ethic and general mindset of the students as individuals and as a body. Rather than the school being a place to challenge oneself to work hard and to learn, it becomes for many something resembling a prison: ‘Just put in the time and eventually you can get out and move on with your life.’ Education is not respected or celebrated, and therefore it ultimately fails.
Now, with my own class I have encountered these challenges with a few of my students, where its obvious that grades are more important than the material and I as the teacher am expected to be very ‘generous’ with my policies and grading procedures. My response, which has been working thus far, has been to keep putting the focus on them. “You were sick the day before the quiz? Well, you knew about it and it’s your responsibility to get the notes.” “You want to blame me for your bad quiz grades, but you have not come for help at all since class began in July.” You are ultimately responsible for your own education.
In these ways aforementioned, amongst others, I am trying to accomplish a few things. I am very focused on demonstrating responsibility to my students, but also am attempting to push an improved work ethic. I promise I do not get my jollies from failing large chunks of my students or taking off points from their average because of excessive absences and tardiness. Rather, I truly hope that they can learn something valuable from my class outside of the actual material and that they can take some of those life lessons with them in their future endeavors. I hope that when they graduate from this teacher trainer college that they take these ideas and use them in their own classrooms. Since the openness to learn brings about knowledge and knowledge is indeed power, I ultimately (and possibly naively) hope that this desire becomes contagious.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Dealing With Death in Mozambique
Since arriving in Mozambique, I have on numerous occasions felt angry and frustrated in the face of such a different culture. One day I might get mad at a Mozambican for bluntly telling me that my Portuguese needs work. Another day I stand at the counter of the bank for the 5th time in 2 weeks, waiting to find out whether I can finally begin to go through the process of requesting a bank transfer. Then, of course, there was the one day a few weeks ago that made all others pale in comparison.
Without wanting to go into too much detail, two Mondays ago, as I was heading down to Maputo with my friend Chelsea, our chapa ran over and killed a young, preteen boy crossing the street in downtown Xai Xai. Besides the initial shock and the obvious fact that both Chelsea and I were pretty upset, I became extremely angry as I further assessed the entire scene.
Looking around I saw faces unmoved, dry eyes, and even heard people complain about the travel delay. I saw people going about their business selling phone credit while others gathered around to see the young lifeless body still resting in a puddle by the side of the road. I saw a side of this culture that has been tough to swallow as a person growing up in my own.
In the weeks following, I have had a few conversations with Mozambicans and Americans alike as I’ve tried to make sense of what I witnessed. Why didn’t that boy’s death seem to affect anyone besides myself and Chelsea? Have Mozambicans experienced death so much as to remain numb to its emotional effects? Why didn’t I see any kind of sympathy in the eyes of the driver?
Having taken into consideration my conversations with Mozambicans, I have seen a different perspective of death than I am used to. Sure, not reacting may be an emotional defense mechanism, but in a lot of cases it appears to be that sympathy simply does not extend outside of situations involving family and friends.
If it is true, that Mozambicans simply do not care for others outside of their family and friends, what does this say, if anything, about Mozambican culture itself? Could it be that while this is true, it is an indirect result of dealing with death all of the time? Or is the culture simply sinister, as American upbringing might tempt us to believe? Having reflected upon these questions for awhile now, I’ve realized that I cannot hope to answer the first two adequately and that the third question itself is simply leading to an unfair conclusion.
To say that a culture is sinister in the manner which is presented, is to effectively dehumanize the people that make it up. But I must, at this point, protest such a crude assumption since it’s obvious that Mozambicans love and are loved. Rather, the point of contention is why there is a tendency to not care as much for strangers or people outside of one’s closest friends and family. Then again, why do we care about what happens to people who we do not know?
In America, like Mozambique, our view of death is not universal, but can be the reality for many. That having been said, as is often the case back home, sympathy does not occur unless there is an association made with the person who is dead or suffering. ‘Oh my goodness, that boy on the news is the same age as my son.’ ‘That woman in the hospital looked like my Aunt Jill.’ And so on.
So what does it all mean? Mozambicans sympathize for friends and family. Americans sympathize for friends, family, and people the remind them of friends and family. Is the American way right or are we just deceiving ourselves to the point that we have to trick ourselves into caring?
I guess in the end I don’t know for sure how to answer any of these questions. I’m still in the midst of processing things and trying to understand where people are coming from. Whatever the case, my inner thoughts aside, please pray for the family of that boy, that they find comfort and peace in such a difficult time. . .
Without wanting to go into too much detail, two Mondays ago, as I was heading down to Maputo with my friend Chelsea, our chapa ran over and killed a young, preteen boy crossing the street in downtown Xai Xai. Besides the initial shock and the obvious fact that both Chelsea and I were pretty upset, I became extremely angry as I further assessed the entire scene.
Looking around I saw faces unmoved, dry eyes, and even heard people complain about the travel delay. I saw people going about their business selling phone credit while others gathered around to see the young lifeless body still resting in a puddle by the side of the road. I saw a side of this culture that has been tough to swallow as a person growing up in my own.
In the weeks following, I have had a few conversations with Mozambicans and Americans alike as I’ve tried to make sense of what I witnessed. Why didn’t that boy’s death seem to affect anyone besides myself and Chelsea? Have Mozambicans experienced death so much as to remain numb to its emotional effects? Why didn’t I see any kind of sympathy in the eyes of the driver?
Having taken into consideration my conversations with Mozambicans, I have seen a different perspective of death than I am used to. Sure, not reacting may be an emotional defense mechanism, but in a lot of cases it appears to be that sympathy simply does not extend outside of situations involving family and friends.
If it is true, that Mozambicans simply do not care for others outside of their family and friends, what does this say, if anything, about Mozambican culture itself? Could it be that while this is true, it is an indirect result of dealing with death all of the time? Or is the culture simply sinister, as American upbringing might tempt us to believe? Having reflected upon these questions for awhile now, I’ve realized that I cannot hope to answer the first two adequately and that the third question itself is simply leading to an unfair conclusion.
To say that a culture is sinister in the manner which is presented, is to effectively dehumanize the people that make it up. But I must, at this point, protest such a crude assumption since it’s obvious that Mozambicans love and are loved. Rather, the point of contention is why there is a tendency to not care as much for strangers or people outside of one’s closest friends and family. Then again, why do we care about what happens to people who we do not know?
In America, like Mozambique, our view of death is not universal, but can be the reality for many. That having been said, as is often the case back home, sympathy does not occur unless there is an association made with the person who is dead or suffering. ‘Oh my goodness, that boy on the news is the same age as my son.’ ‘That woman in the hospital looked like my Aunt Jill.’ And so on.
So what does it all mean? Mozambicans sympathize for friends and family. Americans sympathize for friends, family, and people the remind them of friends and family. Is the American way right or are we just deceiving ourselves to the point that we have to trick ourselves into caring?
I guess in the end I don’t know for sure how to answer any of these questions. I’m still in the midst of processing things and trying to understand where people are coming from. Whatever the case, my inner thoughts aside, please pray for the family of that boy, that they find comfort and peace in such a difficult time. . .
Sal do Mundo
Looking back, one of my biggest disappointments in PC Moz has been my own failure to get the proposed orphan mentoring project off the ground. While I can at least find partial solace in the fact that I tried my hardest, this still does little for a person who was both unhappy with his primary job and was having lingering doubts about being here in the first place. For that reason especially, I was more than elated when I stumbled across a project that went above and beyond what I had imagined and, more importantly, that needed some outside help.
Sal do Mundo (or Salt of the Earth; see Matthew 5) is a project run by the Methodist Church in Chicuque, a town right next to Maxixe, and provide many necessary services for local orphans and vulnerable children. Not only did Sal do Mundo provide food for 200 children and their poor adoptive families, but they also gave uniforms and materials for school, gave money for healthcare, and offered health and hygiene classes. If that weren’t enough, according to Guambe, the Pastor’s husband and the man in charge of the project, there were hopes to start sewing and carpentry classes for the kids to pick up some basic marketable skills.
Over the past few months then, Sal do Mundo has had to adapt to having depleted funds, which as you can imagine, had a rather difficult effect on most of the aspects of the program. What’s inspiring, however, is how despite not having money to get paid the activists still go to visit the families in order to at least make sure things are going alright. In fact, they have reportedly been going so far as to pay for treatment out of their own pockets when the children are sick.
My hope, then, having seen what they have already done and what they are capable of doing is to help resurrect various aspects of Sal do Mundo. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I have access to a variety of grants that cannot cover all of the expenses of the project, but can at least support small portions. I’m also attempting to assert the value of having health classes again, while trying to focus on the developmental aspect of the program so that the focus is on projects that will not run continual costs, but will see some concrete, permanent effects in the community.
Thus far, we are in the early stages of reviving Sal do Mundo, Guambe has already asked me to check on the viability of bringing back the food distribution and healthcare aspect as well as the possibility of starting up sewing classes. While I await confirmation from Peace Corps, I am also looking to help in any way without being invasive and hurting something that has already been running so well.
In the meantime, all I can do is to wait, but I remain encouraged that the wheels are indeed in motion. Here’s praying that we can get to that point sooner than later though and that (if I can make a bad pun) the salt does not ‘lose its taste.’
Sal do Mundo (or Salt of the Earth; see Matthew 5) is a project run by the Methodist Church in Chicuque, a town right next to Maxixe, and provide many necessary services for local orphans and vulnerable children. Not only did Sal do Mundo provide food for 200 children and their poor adoptive families, but they also gave uniforms and materials for school, gave money for healthcare, and offered health and hygiene classes. If that weren’t enough, according to Guambe, the Pastor’s husband and the man in charge of the project, there were hopes to start sewing and carpentry classes for the kids to pick up some basic marketable skills.
Over the past few months then, Sal do Mundo has had to adapt to having depleted funds, which as you can imagine, had a rather difficult effect on most of the aspects of the program. What’s inspiring, however, is how despite not having money to get paid the activists still go to visit the families in order to at least make sure things are going alright. In fact, they have reportedly been going so far as to pay for treatment out of their own pockets when the children are sick.
My hope, then, having seen what they have already done and what they are capable of doing is to help resurrect various aspects of Sal do Mundo. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I have access to a variety of grants that cannot cover all of the expenses of the project, but can at least support small portions. I’m also attempting to assert the value of having health classes again, while trying to focus on the developmental aspect of the program so that the focus is on projects that will not run continual costs, but will see some concrete, permanent effects in the community.
Thus far, we are in the early stages of reviving Sal do Mundo, Guambe has already asked me to check on the viability of bringing back the food distribution and healthcare aspect as well as the possibility of starting up sewing classes. While I await confirmation from Peace Corps, I am also looking to help in any way without being invasive and hurting something that has already been running so well.
In the meantime, all I can do is to wait, but I remain encouraged that the wheels are indeed in motion. Here’s praying that we can get to that point sooner than later though and that (if I can make a bad pun) the salt does not ‘lose its taste.’
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