It Takes a School

by Jonathan Starr

  In fact, Abaarso attracts lots of abnormal folks, some of whom I wish it didn’t. Some come in an effort to run away from themselves or to look for something that they will most likely not find. Often these people don’t stay. Less than halfway through the first school year, we have a teacher decide to leave, well before her one-year contract finished. She is not the only one; teachers who have committed find all kinds of ways not to fulfill their one-year contracts. Many agree to come but don’t show up at all. Some come for a short time and then completely disappear. One guy disappeared, reappeared half a year later to once again apply, and then disappeared again (I know, shame on us). Some back out because they have taken other jobs, sometimes admitting it and sometimes not. One who backs out is actually mad at us because she has spent money on coming to Abaarso before changing her mind. One guy takes the job only to say later he’s accepted it because he wants to develop a primary school education program. It turns out that he has no interest in the actual job we’ve hired him for. Some teachers just don’t get on the plane or, better yet, get on the first plane but not the second. One teacher goes home before finishing two weeks. Others wait several months before bailing. One comes looking for love and, not finding it, leaves. I don’t know how Abaarso could have beaten out any other location as a romantic destination, save maybe Antarctica and the International Space Station.

  It is easy to look at these non-success stories critically, and these folks deserve it, but there’s also the other side of the coin. The vast majority of teachers are at Abaarso because they want to make the world a better place. They believe in our mission and work tirelessly in a tough place to make it happen. With each of these dropouts, the passionate remaining teachers shine, picking up the slack, so the students won’t suffer. Imagine a public school at which the remaining teachers just agree to take on extra work after a colleague leaves. Most teachers don’t feel that kind of ownership and many wouldn’t even be allowed to do so if they wanted to. But it is different for Abaarso teachers. They aren’t doing more because their boss orders it or because they are getting paid extra for the work. They are working harder because that is what Abaarso needs. These teachers are entrepreneurs, and that’s what entrepreneurs do.

  Our dedicated teachers know that there are some awful people in this world who couldn’t care less if they destroy these children’s school. For staff like them, Abaarso is not a concept or a school; it is Nimo’s and Amal’s and Mubarik’s school, and we love it as much as we love them. If Abaarso and its students’ futures were to be destroyed, then we would never be the same. That is something we cannot let happen.

  30

  THE HIGHER EDUCATION COMMISSION

  The Higher Education Commission is in charge of settling the matter of who will be in charge of Abaarso School: Khadar or me. Had Khadar been a highly capable “Steve Jobs” type, someone who could achieve Abaarso’s potential, I would have been happy to step out of the way. Unfortunately, he is nothing of the sort. Abaarso needs a leader who is serious, focused, and hands-on, and Khadar is none of those. If he succeeds in displacing me, and the Higher Education Commission throws me out of the country, I know it will be the end of the school. Many parents feel the same way, which is precisely why they are on our side.

  The financial aspects alone should make it an open-and-shut case. I have been the largest donor, the largest lender, the largest fund-raiser, and the funder of last resort every time the school has been in need. Without my financial intervention, the school would have ceased to exist some time ago. No one else, including Khadar, is willing and able to support Abaarso’s financial and operational needs, all of which are immediate. Without my backing, the school is insolvent. How absurd it is that I need to fight a war so as to be able to volunteer full-time at the school and fund it! Beyond the financial, I have recruited every teacher, overseen every aspect of the school, and managed it from the start. Khadar hasn’t slept a single night at the school. Khadar might tell people that this is “Khadar versus Jonathan,” but in fact it is “Khadar versus the futures of Nimo, Mohamed, and all of the other kids.”

  The parents valiantly fight on our side, but the battle is tough. As one government insider tells me, “Things are taking on a clan image,” further noting that Khadar has no other defense. This is a very bad turn and not a surprising one if one understands Somaliland. Facts and justice are on our side. Clan is not.

  Rumors circulate that the commission has reached a decision: they have switched Khadar’s title from “vice chairman” to “chairman” of Abaarso. I learn this is true a few days later, when I am called to the Ministry of Education for a meeting. Once there, I am directed to an office where I am handed a report written in English riddled with typos, grammatical issues, and lines that are either ambiguous or don’t have any meaning. I am to follow along on my copy as the report is read to me aloud. I wouldn’t have cared about the unprofessional presentation had the content and conclusion not been so disastrous and outright offensive.

  In designating Khadar as chairman, the committee has removed Uncle Billeh from that role. Billeh has been chairman from the start, and while the board has not been active, wouldn’t the vice chairman also be held responsible for that? They’ve also given Khadar veto power over any new school board member whom we appoint, a provision I simply cannot accept. He’ll stack it with his people and ultimately destroy the school. My tolerance for this whole circus has run out, and at this moment I see that entire room of Higher Education commissioners as my students’ executioners. The situation is untenable, and I am fuming.

  Still, I hold my tongue as the report continues to be read aloud for my benefit. But when I hear the line where the commission will appoint a Somali deputy managing director to “relieve Jonathan from direct contact with community, workers, and students,” I lose it. Of all the items, this is the biggest “fuck you.” To me, it is a thinly veiled acceptance of Khadar’s lies that I am destroying the culture and can’t be trusted, even around the students. I am supposed to head the school, but no longer will I have contact with anyone. That’s their position. There is no chance of my accepting these terms, so I have nothing to lose.

  “And who do you think will fund this school?” I ask in fury.

  The commissioner replies in a self-congratulatory way that he’s accounted for that. “We’re still letting you lead all the fund-raising.”

  “Are you really?” I ask. “Oh, that’s so generous of you,” I continue sarcastically.

  I am so angry that I need a few seconds before I launch into my assault. “You have succeeded in handing a great school to your countryman, which he will now destroy, because he has no ability to run it or fund it. You’ve done this against the will of everyone who should matter, staff, students, parents, management, and funders. I will leave the country, and I will make sure the entire world knows what you’ve done and that they shouldn’t think of investing a dollar in this place. This is why people don’t invest more in Africa.”

  The committee members are stunned.

  “We report to a higher authority. This is not finished,” one among them says, making clear to the others that there is still room to negotiate.

  The next move is theirs. They will need to change their report if they want me to accept it. I tell them that there are absolutely no legal grounds to suddenly appoint a new chairman. However, I will compromise on this so long as Khadar actually has to follow a legitimate board that is dominated by the students’ parents. If they are worried about the reputation of the girls, then they are more than welcome to send a female teacher to live with them. If they want help for me in dealing with the community, then I am sure one of the parents will take that role a couple of days each week. All of that should solve the supposed issues, but I make it clear that there is no chance I will stay in Somaliland without absolute day-to-day control over the operations of the school. We haven’t come this far by making Abaarso exactly like every other school in Somaliland. I agree that I will repo
rt to the board, and I will follow any legitimate board vote, as that is how a proper organization works. However, that also means that Khadar cannot overstep boundaries anymore.

  I walk out of the meeting with the committee seeming to be in agreement, and they ask for a letter that states my position. I don’t know if they will stick to it, and until I see the next “Final Report,” I am not taking any chances.

  I call an urgent meeting with the parents to explain what has happened. I tell them that I will not stay in the country under the stated terms. As I put it for them, “Before Khadar had a knife. Now they have given him a gun.” To make sure they know I am not bluffing, I tell the parents that school is now closed until I get confirmation that the commission will improve the document with my conditions.

  With that, the students start packing up. Everybody is really sad and stunned. I see no other way, as we must make a statement. It works, as the minister of education, a woman named Zamzam, and other members from the Higher Education Commission arrive at the campus. They have heard about me closing the school and want to talk. Joined by a number of parents and students, we gather in our large lecture hall.

  Zamzam addresses the students, who are visibly upset, and tries to calm them down. She tells them not to worry, as the adults will take care of the situation. Fadumo raises her hand, stands up, and gives an impassioned speech in English. Rather than make a demand, Fadumo retells a legend that I, too, have heard. “A century ago, the British wanted to establish universities in Somaliland, but it was thought that they’d come as invaders, so our people didn’t allow it. Because of our fear, Uganda and Sudan have two of the best universities in Africa that Somali children dream of attending. Are we going to do it again?” Fadumo is a star, standing up for what is right. Someone would later say, “I don’t like the way those girls carry themselves,” and I know they are referring to Fadumo. “I bet you don’t,” was all I could think. This world isn’t used to strong girls.

  When it is my turn to speak, the students stand up for such an ovation that the minister turns to me and says, “They love you. You can’t ever leave these kids.”

  “Then please fix this,” I reply.

  At the end of the meeting, a student from our charter class approaches me. His name is Guleed. Although he is shy and usually very reluctant to speak in English, he does so now, with tears in his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he says, his voice heartbreakingly sad and innocent. “I’ve learned more here than I have ever learned before. Why would someone take that away from me?”

  What can I say? Each humanizing moment with the students makes my anger at Khadar extend to everyone who has let this happen. I know that the members of the Higher Education Commission believe they are doing traditional Somaliland compromise, leaving the school but giving Khadar much of what he’s asking for, but such a compromise misses the point. It isn’t supposed to be a compromise between Khadar and me, because it isn’t about us. We are not the ones who need educating. What is “compromised” in appeasing Khadar is the education of children. Not that I can say that this kind of thing isn’t happening in the United States. We have compromised our children’s education because we don’t have the political will to kick out all those responsible for our failed public schools. We are every bit as guilty.

  For Abaarso kids, the system was particularly rigged because Khadar abused the fact that the Ministry of Education was led by one of his clansmen. In an American context, the Department of Education favoring someone from a particular region would be extremely improper, but in Somaliland, such positions are actually appointed for the very sake of clan representation. Every subclan expects to get its quota, just like how the American Congress works with its regional representation. While it is possible for the president to remove a minister, doing so unofficially requires making someone else from that subclan a minister in his or her place. This is deemed necessary, as when there is trouble with a subclan, the government sends that subclan’s ministers to calm the masses. In fact, it is all but expected that Khadar’s subclan should be favored by the Ministry of Education. Not that he left these matters to chance. By all accounts, Khadar had his relatives outside of Somaliland calling the ministry and harassing them about how “they should not be stealing Khadar’s school.” That put the ministry in a royal mess in which the two job functions—promoting the country’s education and representing the subclan—come in direct conflict.

  The Higher Education Commission’s decision improved Khadar’s position, a major issue if my fears about him were correct and he wouldn’t be satisfied unless he took over or destroyed the school. In the Higher Education Commission’s defense, they failed to understand what the school had already become. As even one supporter would later say, “We thought it was a good school. None of us understood it was this good.”

  In the end, the Higher Education Commission rewrites the report to reflect that I am the day-to-day manager, that the board will have at least a handful of parents, and that Khadar must follow the directions of the board. While not perfect, the revised report allows me to reopen the school after only a few days.

  PART FIVE

  TENACITY

  It’s not that I’m so smart; it’s just that I stay with problems longer.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  31

  SELLING SUCCESS

  It is September 2012, and one year has passed since the open house at which we announced Mubarik’s scholarship to Worcester Academy, and once again parents, students, and dignitaries are filling Abaarso’s big hall, eagerly awaiting the next scholarship news. They are about to witness nothing less than a referendum on Mubarik’s performance at Worcester Academy—and, in turn, on Abaarso’s mission.

  I had kept up with Mubarik’s progress during infrequent Skype calls with my mother. Mubarik stayed with her during school vacations and holidays, which was a learning experience for both of them. For Mubarik, being in the United States had been a culture shock. He had never seen landscaped lawns, lush forests, extravagant gardens, and so many trees and flowers. He may have been the only person to ever declare Worcester, Massachusetts, to be a place of unparalleled beauty. Upon seeing a landscape crew working on a lawn in Worcester, he remarked something along the lines of, “There’s so much grass here, you cut it. Why not use goats?”

  Everything had been new for him, even the toilet. The first time I had seen a squat toilet, which is flat with the ground and has no toilet seat, I had absolutely no idea what to do. Mubarik had been no different with a seated toilet. He broke the seat soon after arriving at my mother’s house. For my mother, having Mubarik stay with her meant developing a whole new reservoir of patience. To slow the tide of household mishaps, she’d eventually put Post-its on things that needed explanation, like NO METAL on the door of the microwave.

  During one of our Skype calls, Mom expressed concern at what she felt was the weight of responsibility I had placed on Mubarik’s shoulders. “I know Mubarik feels like the entire future of Abaarso is on his back,” she told me.

  “Good. I’m glad he was listening,” I replied.

  “Is that fair?”

  “For better or for worse, it is the truth and he needs to treat it that way,” I told her. “This is about much more than just Mubarik.”

  Originally, Worcester Academy hadn’t wanted to put Mubarik in an Advanced Placement Calculus class. The teacher, coincidentally one of my old math teachers, felt Mubarik had lots of holes in his knowledge. I agreed with him but asked that he give him a shot anyway, insisting that Mubarik’s intelligence and perseverance would help him close the gaps. He’d work overtime to do whatever was necessary.

  With the first report card, we got the very good news that our boy could play. He’d caught up in AP Calculus, and the teacher was no longer concerned. AP Chemistry was a struggle, because he’d never done real labs before, but the teacher, a wonderful woman who had previously taught at the college level, adored Mubarik and was patiently working with him. For that
matter, all the teachers were patient, especially with him not always being easy to understand. Spoken English had not come quickly to Mubarik, and he still had a lot of trouble with pronunciation.

  Worcester Academy isn’t a “rich kids’” school per se but, compared to Mubarik’s upbringing, even the middle-class students seemed like billionaires. With such a difference in backgrounds, Mubarik could have been isolated and outcast, but he wasn’t. Students and faculty embraced him in every possible way. They even had a special day where they added a Somaliland flag to the ceiling of their cafeteria, and they made a Somali meal for the whole school. Their “goat stew” was given Mubarik’s Somali stamp of approval.

  For his first Thanksgiving, a former Abaarso teacher flew him out to Santa Clara, California, to spend the holiday. When he got back, Mom took him to Walmart for a few necessities. Standing in line to get a soda, he announced that his “reward had just come in the mail.”

  “What reward?” she asked.

  “The reward from California.”

  “You got a reward? What did you do?”

  “I came in ten,” Mubarik said.

  “Ten in what?”

  Mubarik, getting a little frustrated, started to talk louder. People in the line started to take notice. “Ten in the race.”

  “You were in a race?”

  “Yes, Christine entered me in a race and I came in ten.”

  “Wow,” Mom said. “How many runners were there?”

  When Mubarik answered “ten thousand,” everybody in the Walmart line started clapping. It turned out that he had run in the Silicon Valley Turkey Trot, the largest “Turkey Trot” in the United States.

  I wasn’t surprised to learn that our former nomad was as good at running without goats as he was with them. Mubarik was fast, and the WA cross-country team had a strong season with Mubarik immediately becoming one of their two star performers. Somalis have a storied history as runners, and in fact, the fastest distance runner in the world is a Somali who competes for the UK. There are endless theories on Somali/Ethiopian/Kenyan dominance, but it seems to come down to superior long-distance-running genetics. On his first day, Mubarik outran others who’d been training for years.