It Takes a School

by Jonathan Starr

  19

  SELECTION DAY

  It is nearing the end of our second year, and you can feel the excitement in the air. Students, teachers, family members, and important members of the Somali community are gathered at the campus for an Abaarso open house, and the buzz is palpable. The students are on display, with science projects and math competitions for all to see, but really all anyone wants to know is which student would be selected to spend his junior year at an East Coast prep school in the United States.

  In a strange way, Abaarso students have my miserable experience at Forest Grove Middle School to thank for their good fortune. Prior to Forest Grove, I was an excellent student at Flagg Street Elementary, a public school a few miles from my home. At Flagg Street, students respected teachers and the rules of the school. They wanted the teachers’ approval, and they knew that approval came from being a good person and a caring student. I wasn’t always the most disciplined student, and I was often in my own world doing my own thing, but most of Flagg Street’s teachers appreciated me nonetheless.

  I came to view Flagg Street as a model of what public education can achieve in K–6, whereas Forest Grove Middle School showed how quickly a bad school can destroy progress. In homeroom, the kids talked about how so-and-so got beaten up by this other kid in a fight after school, and I’d think, “I don’t want to be anywhere near them.” I didn’t know who “them” was, so I just avoided anyone I didn’t know. By the time the school bus dropped me off each afternoon, I had no interest in thinking about school again until faced with it the next day, so I didn’t do any homework. As one friend later described it, “At Forest Grove, it was cool to be dumb. I did my best to be cool.”

  Everything about Forest Grove demoralized me, but the final straw came at the end of one eighth-grade pre-algebra class, when our teacher passed back the graded exams. I saw that she had not seen one of my answers and therefore incorrectly marked it wrong. This was not necessarily her fault, since my handwriting was atrocious and my writing was all over the page. I brought it up to her to explain.

  “I had the right answer there,” I said, pointing to it.

  She didn’t even bother to check my work and see that I indeed had built up to the correct answer. “You just wrote it in,” she nastily snapped, accusing me of cheating. My hatred of the school came to a hard boil. My teacher was baselessly attacking my integrity, the one thing I had kept through my two years in that colossal waste of taxpayer money.

  That was it for me. From then on, I refused to grant Forest Grove even the slightest part of my mind and soul. That term, I received a D in math, formerly my best subject, and my mother knew something had to be done. Since my birth my parents had been saving money for me to go to college, but she said, “At the rate you are going, there isn’t going to be any college.” So my parents took those savings, negotiated whatever financial aid they could, and sent me to Worcester Academy, a prep school not far from my house, which was then around $10,000 per year for a day student.

  Worcester Academy was founded in 1834. When I attended, the campus covered a city block in a tough part of Worcester. The class sizes were small, students and teachers generally respected each other, and performance was king, whether that was through academics, sports, or the arts. I thought the place was kind of stuffy, but in general I performed well there.

  I graduated from Worcester Academy in 1994, glad to be done. I’m pretty sure the WA establishment felt the same way about me. While I’d recovered grade-wise, I was clearly still an underachiever. My ninth-grade math teacher privately told me, “You could be up there with the top kids; you just don’t try,” and he was absolutely right. While I was no longer at Forest Grove, the damage it had done to me took years to heal.

  In the decade-plus since I’d graduated, Worcester Academy had hired a new headmaster, Dexter Morse, who brought the school into the modern age and loosened up its stiff approach. As part of its progressive remake, it had begun an Open Gates program, which, in its own words, “integrated real-world experiences with the school’s curriculum.” Whole Child Education had come to Worcester Academy, which included affluent kids doing community service, and the administration decided to include Abaarso School in their projects. The students, led by my old class adviser, raised money and gathered supplies for our first container from the United States to Somaliland. Worcester Academy invited me to be a speaker for an Open Gates lecture series, “Global Problems: Obstacles and Opportunities,” which gave me a chance to preach about my favorite topic of the time: “The Failure of Aid Work and NGOs in Africa.” I also guest-taught a history class and Skyped in one of the Abaarso students, which made for a particularly terrific lesson. The WA students were engaged and took advantage of the opportunity to ask the types of questions you’ll never find in books. Clan behavior was of particular interest, and they asked questions such as “Does each clan have a meeting place?” and “How do you know who your clansmen are?”

  In a move that would have astounded my former teachers, most of whom probably grabbed old yearbooks to figure out who I was, Worcester Academy presented me with their Young Alumnus Award for founding Abaarso. It was nice to be welcomed home so warmly, and it led to conversations about all that was possible. It turned out a 1960s graduate of WA, Harry Emmons, had been in the armed forces in Africa and had endowed a scholarship for an African student to attend his alma mater. The thing about such a scholarship is that finding a qualified candidate is easier said than done. You can’t just go to FindGreatAfricanStudents.com. The previous recipients of the scholarship had not always thrived, and one year they couldn’t find a qualified African. The headmaster agreed to meet with me to see what we could work out.

  Unlike me, Dexter Morse was the consummate headmaster, looking the part, bespectacled in a suit and tie. I was known to be on campus in my pajamas, with the mawiis skirt on top of them and sandals on my feet. Sometimes, when teaching, I’d get caught up in the subject and not realize that my sandals were no longer on. Dexter was all for sponsoring an Abaarso student, no doubt seeing the strategic fit of connecting one alum’s charitable gift with another alum’s school. Still, there were doubts. “I’m not saying I feel this way, but some here wonder if even the top student in Somaliland can possibly compete at Worcester Academy,” he told me.

  There’s no question that we’d have doubters everywhere until we proved our worth. Abaarso has Dexter Morse and the sponsoring Emmons family to thank for giving us that chance. Dexter agreed to fund one Abaarso boy to come to the school for the following academic year. In addition, WA would bring two girls to campus for their summer program.

  Much of Somaliland had heard me promise to bring Somali children to the United States to further their education, but to them it was so far-fetched that it’s hard to say how many believed me. One student actually told me that it was a turnoff because he knew it was a lie. Well, now it is going to happen, but the question is, who are we going to send?

  The decision of whom to send is arguably the most important yet in Abaarso’s short history. It is our chance for proof of concept, and it has come earlier than I had expected; scholarships to boarding schools were not in my initial plans. An Abaarso student will spend the year at a nearly two-century-old private school that is known by colleges across America. They don’t know Abaarso, and they aren’t coming to visit anytime soon, but a Worcester Academy transcript is a proven commodity. If our student performs well, he will show the world that Abaarso kids can compete. If the opposite happens, we might as well pack up our bags and go home. Like colleges, boarding schools are now over $50,000 per year, and people aren’t going to cough up that kind of money if we strike out in our first at bat.

  Worcester Academy trusts me to make the decision, and I set up a committee to screen the candidates and make recommendations. We create an application, and students need to go through a formal process. The students are thrilled, some referring to it as their dream opportunity, though a few are still a bit skeptic
al. Harry, our assistant headmaster, reports one bizarre rumor that the plan is somehow a conspiracy involving the Central Intelligence Agency and Coca-Cola.

  Semifinalists are chosen, and they interview in front of the teachers, the boys competing for the full-year scholarship, and the girls for two spots in the summer program. Worcester Academy thought a Muslim girl might face specific challenges, so the summer program presented a chance to work through them. Nimo is fantastic in her interview, intelligent, thoughtful, and serious, but she is still underachieving in her courses. While I continue to think she hung the moon, many of the teachers are turned off by her lack of interest in their subjects. Deqa, the girl who’d almost given up on school, has been the best all-around Abaarso student from start to finish. She is my advisee, and I know her well. I certainly support her as a choice, as do many of the teachers after her interview.

  One teacher wonders if Deqa would come back to Somaliland after being abroad. “Deqa, in many ways, life is easier in America,” he puts forth. “Once you finish your education, don’t you think you’ll want to stay there?”

  “America is a great developed country,” Deqa responds. “America already has lots of doctors. Somaliland doesn’t, so I need to come home and be a doctor here.”

  Selecting Deqa is a no-brainer. One girl down, one to go.

  The application process is the first time I really get to know Fadumo Yusuf Abdilahi. Fadumo is intelligent, driven, and good-natured. While she will never threaten to reach five feet tall, she can laugh about herself, sometimes even signing off “Shorty Fadumo.” She is one of eighteen children from her father’s two wives, thirteen from her mother. She is number eight, with two older sisters and five older brothers. One of her older sisters had gone to study in Malaysia after high school, but her father had only let that happen because one of her brothers went as her chaperone. Fadumo had spoken to her sister often about schooling abroad, and that had become her dream, too. She doubted she would be allowed, however. Her father had said he would not send another girl. The expectation was that a girl would get married, but Fadumo has no interest in taking that path. She wants to be a doctor.

  Fadumo had missed the Sheikh exam but then heard from a cousin that Abaarso was still accepting students. Her father is extremely strict and protective, and, like many Somalilanders, fears foreigners invading their culture and converting students to Christianity. He cares about his daughters and genuinely believes they need this type of safeguarding. Fadumo had gone on a hunger strike, vowing not to eat until he allowed her to sit for our exam. Always thinking one step ahead, she had given his phone number for the acceptance results. He always got excited when one of his children received a good grade, so her strategy was that his excitement at her acceptance would be stronger than his resistance to letting her attend.

  Fadumo had been a top scorer on our test. Nonetheless, her plan almost did not work. Yes, her father was happy that she got in, but he still had to be convinced to let her attend. We had certainly been excited when he agreed and glad to have her on board. Here at Abaarso, she is an academic star with grades just a smidgen below Deqa’s. The two of them are so far ahead of the rest of the girls that it is theirs to lose, and far from losing it, they are both great in the interviews. So, Deqa and Fadumo become the two girls selected for the summer at Worcester Academy.

  As far as the full year’s scholarship is concerned, two boys stand out from the group, and I am happy to bet the school’s future on either. In one corner is Mubarik, still working to overcome the English gap but dominating nonetheless. His analytical mind is absolutely superior. In the other is Mohamed, the picture of tenacity. He is so determined, so focused, that you know he will scrap his way to the elite of anywhere, just as he’s done in Abaarso, going from the bottom five to the top five. I walk into the meeting completely neutral between the two. Then Tom, our math teacher since day one, expresses a strong vote for Mubarik. No one argues against it. Maybe others agree with Tom, or maybe, like me, they are neutral. But we have a winner.

  Now the auditorium is hushed before the announcement: “Congratulations, Mubarik. You are going to America!”

  I’ve never seen a group of people as happy for someone else as these students are for Mubarik. It must be something about Somalis, because I would see this kind of support for a fellow student often in the future. Watching the boys carry Mubarik on their shoulders is a moment I will never forget.

  The irony, of course, is that Mubarik will be carrying all of them on his shoulders. Abaarso’s future now entirely depends on this young nomad who’d arrived two years earlier with little education and without a word of English.

  PART FOUR

  THE GREAT MISCALCULATION

  A fool and his money are soon parted.

  —PROVERB

  20

  THE WHITE MAN SPEAKS SOMALI

  Just as the students are beginning to thrive, storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. Out of all the miscalculations I made in planning Abaarso, and there were many, none was bigger than my underlying assumption that the people would welcome me with open arms.

  By any measure, what I was bringing to the community was huge. I had already donated $500,000 of my own money, a large donation even in the United States, and absolutely massive when applied to a country where the average wage is about $100/month. I had relocated my life to Somaliland and brought all my skills, my business contacts, and my energy. What I’d built was tangible, it was for their children, and I didn’t take so much as a dollar of salary from the school. In fact, I was giving more money every day. Wouldn’t the local population be thrilled to have me?

  In reality it can’t even be called a miscalculation, as it never occurred to me to even ask that question. I was so naive.

  Somalilanders have little interaction with the outside world and a deep mistrust of foreigners’ intentions. They are friendly and engaging, but they are suspicious of all newcomers.

  My very first trip to Hargeisa’s market, the suuq, was also my first chance to be in an authentic Somali setting. I went there with a woman who was acting as my Somali guide. The suuq, which spanned the equivalent of about two city blocks, was a crowded maze of stalls. It was loosely divided by the kind of merchandise for sale. A large section displayed brightly colored fabrics stacked on tables and hanging from hooks. Women could choose a fabric, then find one of the seamstresses in the suuq to make them a traditional dress for $5. Another section sold T-shirts, housewares, and trinkets that mostly come from China. I saw sneakers that cost less than $10, but even that price seemed steep given their poor quality. There were all kinds of items boasting famous brand names, but they were obviously knockoffs. In the food section, some women manned a table stacked with meat in the open air with no refrigeration or covering. I did not understand how this was okay, but there were buyers. I bought one box of cereal labeled “Fruit Loops,” wanting a taste of home. The cereal was the wrong color and shape, and tasted like detergent. The vegetables and fruits were limited to a few choices, mostly potatoes, tomatoes, onions, watermelons, and mangoes. The country had limited agriculture, so the vast majority of the fresh food came from deep within Ethiopia to the south.

  Shopkeepers were eager to show me whatever they were selling, even women’s shoes. “Galab Wannagsan,” I said to one vendor as I walked by. He paused for a second, in shock that I knew the Somali phrase for “Good afternoon.” With a big smile, he said “Galab Wannagsan” back to me, then repeated “Galab Wannagsan” to the people around him, who started saying it as well. There were almost no white people at the suuq, and hardly any in Somaliland, so my presence was causing a stir, with people talking and staring at me. When I asked my guide what they were saying, she replied, “The white man speaks Somali!”

  I was such a curiosity that a crowd formed to follow us. They were pleased and far more welcoming because of my attempts at their language. That my Somali was extremely limited was both apparent and irrelevant. The vendors and the shoppers c
ared that I had shown respect for their ethnicity. Billeh has always said the Somali people don’t care about one race versus another; you are either ethnically Somali or you aren’t. They have great pride in their heritage.

  From the outside, Somaliland looked the part of a society ripe for international help, and I saw little to contradict this view. Somalilanders were incredibly friendly people, in my opinion much more so than Americans or Europeans. They were particularly proud of their country and excited to put it on display.

  It was easy to catch development fever hanging around the lobby of the Maansoor Hotel during my first visit to Somaliland. One Somali businessman was launching a ketchup factory. Other Somalis were talking about restarting the old Berbera cement factory. The projects would never happen, but I didn’t know that.

  Then there were the white folks in the lobby, NGO guys pounding away at their laptops. The big shot of this group was a German man who led the European Commission’s mission to Somaliland. All the NGO folks kissed up to him because he controlled big wads of money. This could be the reason for his sizable ego. “You’re talking about a couple hundred students? I’m talking about curing poverty!” he boasted to me, as if it were that simple.

  Back then I had no understanding of how poorly these aid projects worked or how little the population expected from them. I had come here to open a top school for promising scholars, and the people of Hargeisa seemed so warm and welcoming that I envisioned clear sailing ahead. I didn’t know how suspicious they were of any foreigners settling among them, and that the false promises of so many NGOs had reinforced this. The German leader would leave Somaliland, poverty would not, and I’m sure he was paid handsomely just the same. When my turn came to go from “tourist” to “foreigner on a mission” status, I would be up against all the difficult history that preceded me.