While education levels in Somaliland are generally very low, there is still a giant gap between schooling in Hargeisa and in a rural place like Abaarso Village. In the latter, there are scores of people who are completely illiterate. We’ve had documents on which villagers need to sign their name, but only a couple can, so the rest have to use a fingerprint instead. Some of the kids who come to the after-school program do not even know the alphabet.
* * *
A couple of years into the new program, we are ready to let some Abaarso Village students sit for our entrance exam. When the exam is over, we accept the top-scoring student, a girl named Juweriya, whose father owns a qat shop on the main drag. More villagers follow her in the next years, and they manage to hold their own. More village children show up each afternoon. They hope to get into Abaarso one day—or at least receive some education even if they don’t. The future of the village is looking brighter, and with that comes improved relations.
Economists use the idea of “revealed preferences,” in which the actions of people reveal how they truly feel. For example, some might say they don’t like McDonald’s, but if they eat there twice a week, they have “revealed” that they really do like it. So what can we make of the villagers sending their children to school at Abaarso? These were the same people who once warned our girls that we were out to do them harm. While I wouldn’t kid myself that the Abaarso staff and the villagers are now best of friends, one has to conclude that both sides have come a long way. We may not fully understand each other, but there’s one thing we know for sure: we all care about the well-being of their children.
25
MONEY DISGUISED AS RELIGION
Unfortunately, not all our local problems are due to ignorance. Abaarso School had its enemies before we even opened our doors. Private for-profit schooling is a big business in Somaliland, and while some, like Young Muslim Academy, are supportive of our effort, others consider us a threat. Rumors are rampant, and many of our parents are under attack for sending their girls to be with the “infidels.” Some say we are missionaries and that we are out to do harm. When our students go back home on weekends or school breaks, they hear heckling in town from people who know nothing about Abaarso. Some even get in physical fights with those spreading these lies.
The heads of their former schools are the worst offenders.
“I hear they’re trying to change your religion.”
“No, that hasn’t happened at all.”
“How do you know? They might be doing it in a secret way.”
Anyone who has met a missionary knows they are neither coy nor fans of playing the long game. Anyone who knows me knows I have no interest in religion. These accusers don’t care, as they are the ones with the secret agenda. Such attacks are not unprecedented. SOS is a European organization, and when they first reopened the Sheikh School, they faced many of the same rumors. Those proved baseless, and by the time I’d arrived, SOS was considered the top school in Somaliland, but that doesn’t stop the attackers from trying again. In business terms, for-profit competitor schools exploit religious and cultural fears to create a barrier to entry.
One of our students’ mother told me the following story. She had gone to discuss a problem with the headmistress of the school where her younger children are enrolled. But instead of the school addressing her concern, the headmistress attacked her. “Your girls at Abaarso are having their religion changed,” she scolded. She had never set foot on our campus, but five of her former students were now at Abaarso, which meant lost revenue.
The maligning of Abaarso is hard for the students and parents alike. It also creates additional security concerns. After all, it has only been six years since the brutal assassination of the British couple who came to Somaliland to reopen the Sheikh School under SOS’s auspices. Attacks based on religion, no matter how unfounded, put our teachers in danger. No walls, especially ones with removable glass fragments, could keep one safe from a society that turned against you. Our guards are local people, and with enough bad rumors, even they could quickly become enemies.
26
TROUBLE WITH THE BOYS
Within the school, we are constantly dealing with gender issues. Somaliland boys aren’t used to the competitive role of the female in the classroom setting. I have seen it myself; girls at other schools take a backseat in education, lacking the role models and support the boys receive. In fact, Deqa had been the only girl to score in the top 25 on our entrance exam with SOS. Now the Abaarso boys, accustomed to their gender roles, are watching girls compete against them and even surpass them in many ways. While some appreciate the girls’ achievement, others feel threatened.
How each boy views the issue seems to directly correlate with how he is faring in the transition to Abaarso. Boys like Mohamed and Mubarik are too busy trying to excel to worry about how the girls are doing. For others who aren’t finding it easy, the new world order has knocked them a bit off-kilter. I’m not even sure they can explain what it is that is bothering them, but they know something is wrong. By far the worst offender is a boy we’ll call Shakib. He isn’t picking up English quickly, and while he had come in with one of the higher math scores, he struggles to shift to our critical-thinking-driven classes. It seems to me that he wants someone to feel superior to, and with students surpassing him in the classroom, that someone is getting hard to find.
Not that I necessarily help the situation. I know that most of the boys believe they are smarter than the girls. Our boys need to see them as equals, and I am quite aggressive in making sure they see with their own eyes what the girls are capable of. When Nimo comes up to the whiteboard with her Dragon Problem answer, I call out, “Nimo’s on the second problem. Is anyone else even close?” It is a bit obnoxious, but I can’t help myself. Sometimes I go even further. “I thought all boys were smarter than girls,” I chide them. “Doesn’t seem like it.” They get my point, and the most resistant don’t like it one bit.
Not long into our first year, a small group of boys, led by Shakib, lashes out. Like the for-profit schools that insult Abaarso, these boys choose religion as their point of attack. Shakib all but declares himself to be the “commissioner of the religious police,” and quickly many of the boys fall in line behind him. It doesn’t take me long to realize a clear dynamic in the school; everyone is terrified that they will be labeled as “not religious enough” by this self-appointed “commissioner” and his panel. Shakib has essentially seized power.
One of the first clues that awakens me to the religious posturing occurs in a meeting with the students after showing them a film. I thought showing movies would be a fun way to hear and learn English, while also learning about the world. As we are in Africa, I decide to show Hotel Rwanda, the story of a hotel manager named Paul Rusesabagina, who gives refuge to a thousand persecuted Tutsi tribesmen during the Hutu militia’s siege in Rwanda. It is a good movie with a powerful message.
The day after the movie, we hold an assembly. I ask the kids if they liked it. One of the Abdis replies, “We liked it, Teacher, we liked it, but there was something in this movie that was against our religion.”
“The genocide of innocent people?” I ask, certainly hoping that is the answer.
Dismissing that, he refers to the part where the husband and wife characters kiss. “We know Rwandan men and women kiss, but we are not really supposed to see that.”
Abdi is referring to the scene where Paul, the main character, and his wife are on the roof of the hotel, and he tells her that if the hotel gets invaded, she should gather their children on the roof and together they will jump to their deaths. “The machete is no way to die,” Paul tells her, after which he kisses her. It is not a sexual kiss in any fashion, but rather a solemn kiss of what could be a “good-bye.”
If a vote were taken for “least religious student on campus,” I’m quite sure this particular Abdi would win. If it were an anonymous election, he’d even vote for himself. Yet his public response about th
e film shows that each and every student fears for his or her religious reputation, and fear is exactly what the so-called religious police will use.
Which is not to say Abdi is wrong. From then on, we will not let the students see anything that can be considered remotely romantic. We screen every movie first and time how far into the film each potentially offensive scene occurs. Right before a “censored” scene, we pause the film and cover the projector with a sheet. The most ridiculous part is that every time we do this, a bunch of kids boo, showing just how confused they are. Eventually, we take the further step of having the boys and girls view movies separately.
Another issue arises when I coach the Abaarso girls at basketball. Many of the girls have never participated in gym before. A few others have, and have even been taught sports by a male coach. That first year, I am the only adult on campus who knows how to coach basketball, and some of the girls have expressed an interest in the sport. The girls play dressed from head to toe with multiple layers, but nonetheless, Shakib, the thorn in my side, makes it an issue, saying it is inappropriate for males to be coaching the girls. Eventually, I stop. The girls aren’t happy about this, insisting there is no religious basis for me not to be their coach. “If a Somali school has a male coach, why can’t we?” they ask.
“Because we aren’t a Somali-run school and I’m not Somali,” I tell them. “Get used to the double standard.” This fight isn’t worth having. I’d never accept the girls getting an inferior education. If I thought I was compromising on that issue, I’d fight it hard. But none of them is going to the Women’s National Basketball Association, so getting exercise is enough.
Shakib doesn’t stop there, however. He and his group begin voicing opposition to male teachers spending time helping female students, though they don’t say a word about boys spending time with female staff. Religious belief is just a disguise in this case; it is not the true root of this rebellion. If Shakib were actually pious, then we wouldn’t have caught him blatantly cheating.
The situation comes to a head when a reporter from the United States wants to interview our students. I arrange for five of them, three girls and two boys, to go to Hargeisa to meet with her. The boys are very late getting to the bus, and I don’t want to miss the reporter, so we leave without them. The reporter meets us at the Maansoor Hotel and interviews the girls. Coincidentally, this is the same night that Ahmed Mohamed Mohamoud Silanyo wins the presidential election, and the victory is announced in a press conference held at the Maansoor. This turns the hotel into a mob scene, and it is hard for us to get out. The bus gets back as best it can, but not until ten or eleven that night.
The next day, a large group of boys tell me they need to meet with me. Of course, they are led by the self-appointed “commissioner” of what has become Abaarso’s religious police. In front of all the boys, Shakib points a finger in my face and scolds, “You will not spend time with the girls!” You will not this, and you will not that. Another boy chimes in. “How do we know you were where you say you were?” he challenges. “Prove it!”
But the “commissioner” and some of his deputies aren’t done. They persist until I call all the boys to the lecture hall for a meeting. Once again, Shakib points his finger in my face making demands, and this time I’ve had enough. “Here’s the deal,” I say. “I’m leaving the room right now and so are all of you. If you come back here in fifteen minutes, then I’ll assume you want to be part of my school and that you will be students. You will never be so disrespectful to a teacher again. If not, the gate is open and all of you are welcome to leave. I’ll just make Abaarso an all-girls’ school.”
Every boy comes back to the lecture hall, and the direct confrontations eventually come to an end. Shakib continues his reign of terror over the student body, but eventually he and other troublemakers will leave Abaarso; almost all are students who have struggled to perform. The boys and girls are equally thrilled to see Shakib go.
I realize this story paints an unfairly poor picture of the boys, who, like all the students, are growing up. One can’t judge them on this behavior any more than we can judge students for initially cheating. In time, the boys become great supporters of the girls. It takes a while, but they come to see the girls as sisters and applaud the girls’ successes as victories for all of Abaarso and even Somaliland. They also come to see that the teachers care as much about them as about the girls, so rather than fighting the positive teacher-girl relations, they should just develop their own strong connections with the staff.
As I often remind myself, no one ever said I’d be handed a glossy finished product. The point of education is to help the raw material grow into something special, and that’s exactly what is happening. We are building something special, and we are all in it together.
27
KHADAR’S RAGE
In late July 2011, just days after the completion of our second school year, Khadar Ali drives his car to the middle of campus, throws open the passenger door, and steps out in a rage. He is angry and wants it to be known. He’s driven through the gate as if he owns the place, which is no surprise. He is now yelling at my students, many of whom are outside when he arrives.
“It is my school! It is my school!” he rages, right in front of all of them.
“What makes it your school?” I ask.
“I built the wall!” he responds, referring to his oversight of construction of the cement security wall that encircles the school.
“With my money,” I shoot back.
He then strides over to a group of boys and starts telling them that they should be angry, too, because this school favors girls. He tries to get my guards to arrest me, but to their credit, they want no part of any of this. When Khadar gets back in his car, he is still furious. As he speeds away, another man with him in the vehicle repeatedly shouts out the window at our girls, “Get the fuck off our land!”
Up until recently, Khadar had been problematic, but he’d also brought clear value to Abaarso. From the start, he seemed eager to be part of my plans and acted as “our Somali partner.” He was extremely knowledgeable and connected in Somaliland, and he had been instrumental in the land acquisition for the school, when unbeknownst to me, he’d led us to his subclan’s land. One of his strongest assets had been his contacts within the British Foreign Commonwealth Office. They told him about their desire to fund some educational initiatives in Somaliland, and he suggested to me that I write a proposal for Abaarso, with his own NGO, which we will call DEV, acting as the intermediary organization. While DEV acts solely in Somaliland, it is still legally an international NGO, so the British could send the money to DEV, who’d then give it to Abaarso. We were eventually awarded the grant, £150,000, the equivalent of about $225,000, over two years, which made me ecstatic. It seemed to be clear evidence that in Khadar I had found the right Somali partner.
Given my background and ultimate desire to attract donors, I wanted to ensure that our financial management was handled correctly from the start. I wasn’t yet in Somaliland, so I relied on Khadar to disperse the funds I sent. Khadar agreed that he’d keep Abaarso funds separate from DEV rather than commingling funds. That way, we could easily match accounting to actual movements in money. But in time I realized this never happened and the monies remained commingled in his DEV account. The most generous explanation for this is carelessness. The least is not pretty. Unfortunately, this was the first, but by no means the last, financial management issue that arose between Khadar and Abaarso. In fact, it had been two years, and despite promises, he’d still never provided an accounting explanation for the first $10,000 I’d sent.
Bringing the school to Abaarso Village had convinced many people in the area that Abaarso was his school. Why else would the school be located in Abaarso? Why would anyone else go out of their way to put a school in that undeveloped village with no water or power? There was also the matter of the sign he’d posted at the building site while I was away in the States. The Abaarso School of Sci
ence and Technology sign said “Sponsored by DEV,” with no mention of my having actually funded the construction. Whether Khadar had purposely made such oversights, or they were all accidents, one thing was for sure—much of the Somali world had come to believe that Khadar owned the school and his actions had supported this view.
People believing this false position had surely garnered Khadar clout, but I can only imagine that it also put him in challenging positions. When the watchmen demanded that I double their pay and I refused, many probably went to Khadar to say, “Khadar, you’re the owner. Get me my job back.” That’s speculation, but based on Somaliland culture, it is an awfully reasonable one. Similarly, a parent of an expelled student might ask him to get his kid back in. In both cases, Khadar could make up a little story about how that white boy was behaving poorly, and he would fix it, but in time, people would see that Khadar didn’t have the power he claimed. Over time, this would dig a deeper and deeper hole. He could come clean, but what if he could instead take over the school? Or just as effective, what if it completely collapsed? Couldn’t he ultimately blame the failure on me, and no one would need to know that he wasn’t really who they thought he was?
Over the past few months, our relationship has been unraveling. I’ve also heard that he’s been badmouthing me and the school, even telling people that a fight is coming. There have been some attempts at negotiating our disagreements. Up until a week ago, it seemed we were close to a resolution. The parents had tried to reconcile us. My assistant headmaster, Harry, and two other teachers had also tried. Everyone wanted to let him save face in return for a written guarantee that he would not interfere with management or bother the school. But the Somalilanders, the ultimate mediators, had come back and told me that nothing could be accomplished. Khadar’s sights were set on taking over the school. I had involved the school board’s executive committee, showing them the financial issues, which included our missing a large chunk of money due from DEV for the British government grant. I showed them his governance violations, in which he acted like Abaarso’s owner instead of just as a board member. For my relationship with Khadar, this had made things worse, significantly upping the ante and no doubt embarrassing him. But I didn’t see much choice, considering he’d been ducking my requests for the accounting information for months, promising he’d send it right away and then never doing so.
It Takes a School Page 13