Day of the African Child

(Hiyakenamuni)

This week was a hard one. Grade seven was unruly and it was difficult tackling long division with such rampant distractions. Grade six was better, though they had quite a bit of trouble distinguishing fragments from complete sentences. But the real blow came on Thursday morning. I was in the middle of my second period sixth grade English class when Ms. Kahaanga came to the door and asked to speak with me. I joined her outside and she wasted no time telling me that Jeneth’s and Uzapo’s (siblings in seventh grade) father had just pulled the two out of school, that the family was leaving for Omaruru immediately because their diabetetic mother needed constant medical treatment, and both children would now be attending Omaruru Primary School. I stared at her, visibly upset. Uzapo and I have butted heads on everything from getting him to do his math problems in class to his adamant assertion that men are smarter than women. But Jeneth, as I wrote last week, is one of the few closest to my heart. She is also, hands down, the best English student that I have.

I told Ms. Kahaanga I wanted to tell Jeneth goodbye, and went to pull her out of class. “I heard that you were leaving,” I began. I stopped immediately at the look on her face, one of shock and confusion. Suddenly I realized I had made a terrible mistake. For some reason, Jeneth did not yet know about the decision. I told her to wait just a moment, crossed the courtyard to Ms. Kahaanga’s office and asked the principal, “Do they know that they are leaving school?” She shook her head absently, “No—not yet. Maybe you could tell them.” My jaw dropped. I was at a complete loss. “You want me to tell them? Not their parents?” She frowned at me, confused at my hesitation, “No, you can find a way. You must explain.” And suddenly, everything changed. My emotions about Jeneth leaving shifted to the fact that I, and not her parents, had been elected to impart the news. That for some reason her family had not saw fit to talk to she and Uzapo about what was coming. They had decided, informed the only adult that mattered, and delegated the rest.

(George)

I walked back over to Jeneth and sat next to her on the steps leading up to the closed classroom door. I felt curious eyes peaking out the windows. I looked at her bewildered, slightly frightened face, and knew as soon as I said what I was about to say the look would intensify. I took a deep breath, “Jeneth, listen, your family has decided to move to Omaruru. Your mom needs to get better and it will really help her to be closer to the doctors there. I think your dad wants to leave today. He’s talked to Ms. Kahaanga and you and Uzapo will be going to Omaruru Primary School. It’s a really good school.” I stopped then. She didn’t say anything, just stared down at her feet. “I’m sorry, but we have to say goodbye now.” She nodded, her eyes wet, “Okay.” I told her she was special and smart. I told her she was one of my favorites and no matter what Uzapo said, if she kept studying, she’d be a journalist one day. I gave her my cell phone number even though I knew she didn’t have a phone to call me on it. I told her we would try to meet up in Omaruru even though I knew that she would be living in the Location, a good ways away from the center of town. And I gave her a tight hug. She was silent the whole time I spoke, nodding her head every now and then. But I knew she understood.

(Jeneth)

Then I called Uzapo out and had to tell him about the move. And even after all of our arguments and classroom battles I could not help but put my hand on his shoulder as that same blindsided expression came over his face. After I finished talking, the two ducked back inside the class to say goodbye to friends and gather up their books. I walked with them to the front gate of the school, and as they slipped out a few of the kids that had escaped the room came running to send them off. We all waved as brother and sister crossed the street and disappeared into one of the houses.

I sent the students back to class. I walked slowly towards school. Then I ducked in between the buildings. I put my hand on the wall and turned away from the courtyard so I couldn’t be seen. And I cried a little. Not for very long but just a little. Tears of disbelief, of bewilderment, of missing. Tears that did not understand parents sending their children to school only to pull them out two hours later, that did not understand a father coming to explain the situation to the principal and then leaving before he had to explain it to the people it really affected. Tears that hated being the bearer of such bad news, that hated how empty English class would feel now.

Today is a holiday called the Day of the African Child, a celebration of the rights of children. School was cut short, songs were sung, games played. However, the irony of such a holiday is not lost on me, especially this week. I have gained a new insight into how children are often viewed in Namibia, something that perhaps should have been clear before now given how I spend my days. They aren’t seen as people, as adults—only smaller and more fragile. No, they are simply there— not fully human until grown—expected to do as they are told, to accept what comes without justification, to live in a world they have no control over without asking questions because we, the grown-ups, know best. I understand that now. But I wish I didn’t.

(Hinakumei)

There is a new WorldTeach volunteer who has arrived for the summer at a school 15km away. I am meeting her this weekend to give her a proper welcome and maybe find a friend. Her name is Jessica too, a good omen I think. At least, I hope so.