Corporal Punishment

My week here was tiring but fine. I started extra study sessions for the kids in the afternoons, which hurt some students’ pride, but they came anyway. The heat seemed to break a little—something we all welcomed, but I began to hear the first notes of worry in the voices of the teachers whenever the weather was mentioned because there has been no rain. And February—half over—is generally the wettest month in Omatjete.

My neighbor, Ms. Ikorua, who has tried my patience off an on throughout the month (going through my trash and telling me not to throw out egg shells because she eats them, ordering me to open my windows even as mosquitoes flutter inside in droves, bellowing that I have left too much water in the drain, etc) began cementing my dislike for her this week beyond a general annoyance. I open the library to the students in the afternoon for an hour or so. Kids can come in, check out a book, and read for a while. This privilege is traditionally reserved for sixth and seventh grade only, but in this case I’ve decided to ignore tradition and allow anyone in who wants to come in. They all love the books so much. Funa, who is a great reader for his age, asked me if he could take one home. I hesitated, but couldn’t tell him no. After a thorough lecture about the importance of taking care of the books I let him go—and he skipped out across the playground, heading excitedly towards dinner, the book tucked tenderly under his arm.

But Funa is barely ten. And in his excitement he must’ve dropped the book along the way to school the next morning because Ms. Ikorua found it, and dragged him over to me. “Did you give this one a book?” she demanded. I told her I had. She glared at me but more at him. She grabbed his face and squeezed it hard between her fingers, “Don’t give this one anymore books.” Funa looked up at me helplessly, as if he’d let me down. She shoved him off the steps, and we all went into our separate classrooms.

At first, I was furious with her. Later, I felt relieved that at least she hadn’t hit him. Corporal punishment here is technically illegal. The practice of beating children for their misdemeanors was abolished by Namibia’s new constitution when the country achieved independence. No teacher is permitted to strike a student. That’s the law.

Here are the facts: it happens. It happens every day. Some teachers carry sticks to class with them, others use strips of old tires, others turn to the more sophisticated ruler or cane. Most just use their hands.

The first time I saw a teacher hit a student I was standing right next to her. It was during PE and a sixth grade boy had slapped a fellow student, causing him to cry. The teacher summoned the guilty boy forward, and he seemed to sense what was coming because his steps were tiny, and he attempted to keep at least an arm’s length distance. But she called him forward again and he knew it was a lost cause. She reared back, he winced—bracing himself, and she smacked him roughly four or five times on the face scolding harshly, “Don’t hit people!”

I looked away then feeling uncomfortable and a little ashamed. The boy was fine—he returned to his laps around the field—the worst over. By the time he passed again, he was laughing and kicking at the girl in front of him. I didn’t want to be too dramatic, but I felt sick to my stomach for awhile afterwards—the teacher chatting merrily with me about going into town on Friday, and how was I doing, did I talk to my family very much, would I like a piece of her homemade candy?

So it happens. Slaps, smacks, punches are commonplace. Consequently, fighting is a constant conversation the kids have with one another. Sometimes it’s a vicious, “I hate you and wish you’d die.” Sometimes it’s a playful, “I like you and want your attention.” Sometimes it’s simply an announcement of boredom. But they are always trying to tell each other something. Like English or the regional Oshiherero, violence is a language—a truly universal one. And having been taught well, the students are fluent.

The truth is, after only five weeks as a teacher, while I would never condone the action, I can understand the urge to strike a child. But I think it almost always stems from our own failures as teachers—the inability to reach a student, to get them to listen, to understand, and most difficult of all: to care.

This does not mean that I have forgiven Ms. Ikorua. That afternoon I found Funa sulking on the playground and motioned for him to come over. He approached hesitantly and I wondered if he thought I too was going to hurt him. But I smiled, and he smiled back. “The library’s open at 3:30,” I told him. “I better see you there.” And as he retreated to his friends, I thought I saw the skip return to his steps.

As always, thanks for listening. And “hold your thumbs” (that’s what Namibian’s say instead of cross your fingers) that rain comes soon.