Global media coverage of Sudan’s protests is lamentable

 In Sudan, a week of protests, demonstrations and killings (the Sudanese Doctors Union says 210 https://radiotamazuj.org/en/article/sudanese-doctors-report-210-dead-khartoum-during-demonstrations) have passed and most of us are none the wiser. In the meantime earnest calls for change have been met by brutal suppression.  School children shot in cold blood. Funeral goers attacked.  People made voiceless by nationwide internet blackouts.  Yet the response of the world’s media has barely been audible.

So while the BBC muses over the details of Prince George’s upcoming Christening and CNN speculates about the implications of President Obama and Rouhani’s exchange of niceties, human stories of unimaginable suffering have gone unheard. The idea that journalism should be a force for positive change in the world is once again put into question.

As the worlds media continues to turn a blind-eye to developments in Sudan, the momentum of the protests ebb. The longer you have to search the hidden links of an internet news website to find even vague mention of Sudan (usually written by an agency), the greater the injustice. 

There is a compelling story waiting to be told. A story of young and old, man and women ( see http://english.alarabiya.net/en/News/2013/09/30/Tear-gas-fired-at-women-s-university-protest-in-Sudan-.html), whole families for that matter bravely taking to the streets in defiance of the status quo. It is a defiance so striking precisely because of the challenge it faces.

 More often than not, voices for change are stifled by the government’s overbearing security apparatus. Media and information networks have been censored. Civil society has been purged of its most persuasive voices.  Sudan’s protest may not be as large as those witnessed in Egypt and Tunisia, yet the challenge it faces is in many ways more daunting.

 The global media does not grasp this challenge. It does not recognize the significance of the moment a journalist accuses a minister of ‘lying’ in his claims that photographs of shot protestors are ‘fakes’’  (http://www.utsandiego.com/news/2013/sep/30/sudanese-journalist-criticizes-ministers-on-camera/).

 Instead given the breakthroughs at the UN, Syria’s chemical weapons, Egypt’s ongoing protests not to mention Prince George’s upcoming Christening, events in Sudan rarely reach the newscast’s rundown (AJE and France24 being exceptions).

 Perhaps we think we already understand the protests in Sudan. That with one instinctive brushstroke we can paint the same picture of political and social oppression, economic demise and civil conflict that we subconsciously associate with any mention of this ‘hopeless’ country.

 If so, we are very mistaken.

  

Female genital mutilation in Sudan: What is the tie that binds?

Reason to be optimistic?

“It only exists in rural areas….its a thing of the past,” says Amal, an unmarried middle-aged teacher, and passionate advocate of female education and empowerment in Sudan. Amal is not alone in embracing this optimistic narrative of progress in the struggle to save future generations of young girls from the scourge of female genital mutilation (FGM).

Ask Sudanese people about the practice and the same, reassuringly familiar message reigns: Sudan stands on the brink of eliminating FGM. It is not hard to accept this logic. Recent UNICEF reports (2008 + 2013) have highlighted a concerted campaign of local and national initiatives aimed at eradicating FGM in Sudan. 

A 2008 UNICEF report, for instance, outlines how community level projects have shifted FGM from being a ‘taboo topic’, to one which can be openly discussed. In government, the state authorities of South Kordofan and Gedaref have successfully passed legislation banning FGM, setting a strong precedent for renewed federal initiatives to outlaw the practice.

 Most noteworthy is the saleema campaign, a coordinated effort by government, religious leaders, artists and Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) to eliminate FGM by reframing how people view the ‘uncut’ girl. Through the use of national television and community radio, the term saleema aims to delink the ‘uncut’ girl from abusive slurs such as qulfa, which arouse negative images of prostitution, low status and immorality, and instead create a more positive alternative based on a ‘whole, happy and healthy girl who is uncut, as God made her’. Centred on the expression ‘Every girl is born saleema. Let her grow saleema’, the campaign looks to revise preconceptions about what constitutes a natural, normal and Muslim girl.

Complex dynamics of change.

  However, despite tangible advancements in advocacy work and widespread assertions of progress, the dynamics of change surrounding the practice of FGM are more complex than it may at first appear.  Indeed, as a new report published by UNICEF ( Female genital mutilation/cutting: a statistical overview and exploration of the dynamics of change. Available from http://www.unicef.org/media/files/FGCM_Lo_res.pdf) highlights, there is a startling discrepancy (comparable in size only with Ethiopia) between the number of Sudanese women who have undergone FGM , and those who think it should continue.

 While 88% of Sudanese women aged between 15 and 49 have undergone some form of FGM, only 42% of women think the practice should continue (versus 53% who think it should end). Despite apparent attitudinal changes and augmented abandonment efforts, the prevalence of FGM in Sudan has remained static for the best part of a decade. In contrast, over the last two decades support for FGM has steadily decreased from 79% (UNICEF 1990) to 42% today. 

 Drawing on a comprehensive compilation of data from the 29 countries where the practice is most common, UNICEF’s report emphasizes the disparity that exists between attitudes and behaviour towards FGM, especially in ‘high prevalence’ countries such as Sudan. In many ways this discrepancy raises more questions than answers as to how future generations of Sudanese girls may become unbound from this tortuous practice perpetrated by those who love them.

Sudan is perhaps the most pertinent example of how concerted efforts by government and NGOs to make individuals appreciative of the physical and social costs of FGM, are futile in the face of a practice that has, over time, become so deeply entrenched in the social fabric of communities. It is identifying and combating the social dynamics that perpetuate this brutish behaviour, in spite of individual preferences to stop it, that holds the key to narrowing the gap between the prevalence of FGM and the attitudes, as well as misguided perceptions, surrounding it.

The nature of FGM in Sudan

 As girls enter their early years of puberty, FGM looms as a ‘rite of torture’ that families put their daughters through in the name of honour, chastity, purity and morality. In Sudan type III, the most severe form of FGM, is most prevalent. Some surveys suggest that as many as 80-90% (PATH) of ‘circumcised’ Sudanese women have undergone this type of procedure.

 Type III FGM, also known as Pharonic circumcision or infibulation, involves the total removal of all external sex organs, including the clitoris and labia, while what is left of the vagina is sewn up, leaving a small opening to permit urination and the passing of menstrual blood.

  FGM leaves its indelible mark on each stage of a girls passage to womanhood; a daughters evolution to motherhood. It controls a women’s sexuality. It confines women to lesser partners in their own marriage. It conceives femininity as synonymous with docility and obedience, laying the social fabric of communities for generations to come.

 Most girls in Sudan undergo FGM between the ages of 5 and 11. The procedure is usually carried out by a ‘traditional practitioner’, that is an older women from the community, or by untrained midwives.  Equipped with unsterilized kitchen knives, razor blades, scissors and pieces of sharpened glass, these practitioners ply their trade in the habitual surroundings of a girl’s home.

  Female members of the family and neighbours play a supporting role holding the girl down, leaving her destined for the inescapable agony, the gruesome disfigurement about to be inflicted upon her by the midwives razor blade. After the procedure the girl’s legs will be tied together, leaving her immobile for ten days until the flesh fuses together.  Here starts a recurrent cycle of anguish and agony that will afflict every stage of her development.

 Adolescence will be remembered for the excruciating pain that follows each period, as menstrual blood is unable to escape at the rate required.

 The consummation of marriage makes unavoidable the indescribable, bloody pain, experienced as the small vaginal opening is gradually- over a matter of days and weeks- probed open, and a girl’s virginity shed. Far from being a setting for intimacy and tenderness, the honeymoon would surely border on sadistic if it were not for the reality that more men oppose infibulation than women (65% of men favour stopping the practice versus 53% of women).

 Type III FGM increases the likelihood of infertility by 25%. Childbirth holds innumerable, unnecessary dangers for child and mother. Infibulation risks tearing, bleeding and obstructed labor. ‘Deinfibulation’, in childbirth, is followed by a process of ‘reinfibulation’ , reasserting a women’s obedience to husband and society.

 In deference to the risks, the agony, the anguish and the inequality enshrined in this practice, FGM remains persistent in Sudan.  Despite widespread advocacy and abolition campaigns the deep-seated social ties that bind people to FGM are yet to be cut. Why do they remain so potent and persuasive?

The social ties that bind

  FGM is so pervasive and persistent in Sudan because decisions to engage in it go beyond mere cost-benefit calculations that acknowledge its harmful consequences. Within each social category, a sizeable number of individuals hold beliefs- or claim to hold beliefs- that contradict their behaviour.

In Sudan 31% of daughters between the age of 0-14 have a mother who opposes FGM, yet has still surrendered their daughter to the procedure.  Almost 65% of Sudanese men (significantly more than women) want to see FGM end, yet the most offensive insult young men can throw at each other is ‘your mother is an uncut [whore]’. Support for FGM among the richest, most educated ‘quintile’  is only 21% (as opposed to 68% in the poorest ‘quintile’),  yet the prevalence of FGM for girls between the age of 0-14 is exactly the same  between the richest and poorest quintile.

 FGM is seen as a social obligation that transcends individual preferences.  Chastity, and consequently virginity, are seen as moral imperatives for prospective brides. FGM, specifically type III infibulation, is seen as an assurance of this. Female circumcision is a statement of purity, or ‘tahur’; the clitoris an illicit symbol of sexual desire, manliness and uncleanliness.  It is the dictate of ‘bride price’; the embodiment of a family’s reputation for moral integrity. FGM is a rite of passage to social acceptance.

Interdependent decision-making

 Using social norms theory the recent UNICEF report on FGM highlights the flaw of assuming a direct link between information, intention and behaviour change. Indeed, while Sudanese people have been exposed to a concerted campaign of community level initiatives, mass media advocacy and government attempts to outlaw the practice, their behaviour (the prevalence of FGM) has remained largely unchanged for over a decade. In this vein the decision of an individual regarding FGM can be seen as dependent on the decision of others.

 There is a social stigma attached to the uncut girl. Rightly or wrongly, individuals who disapprove of FGM, perceive that they are an exception, an anomaly in society. In reality, the statistics collected on individual attitudes suggest that there is a majority of people in Sudan who disapprove of FGM. Individuals incorrectly perceive the attitudes of other individuals.

 This leads to a phenomenon social norm theorists call ‘pluralistic ignorance’.  In its most extreme form, pluralistic ignorance may create a situation where every individual in a community disapproves of FGM, yet behaviour remains the same as these same individuals believe themselves to be social anomalies. There consequently exists a tendency to overestimate the support a practice, such as FGM, receives from others.

  In Sudan this situation may be put down to a lack of public scrutiny. There has been a failure to establish an effective, all-inclusive and comprehensive strategy to eradicate the practice of FGM.  While there have been numerous campaigns in Sudan to eliminate FGM, these have neither effectively targeted nor mobilized the key norm-makers. For instance while health professionals frequently visit girls secondary schools and women’s social groups to raise awareness surrounding the dangers of FGM, no such visits are made to boys secondary schools and men’s social groups.  Similarly mass media campaigns are more likely to be seen by women, who spend more time confined to the house, watching television and listening to radio, then men.

 While regretful, the reality is that in Sudanese society men, particularly fathers, hold greater sway over decision-making and norm-entrepreneurship.  There needs to be a more concerted, targeted effort to engage these multiple decision-makers (which, significantly, includes those pernicious little grandmothers), so that the significant individual opposition to FGM can be mobilized to prompt wholesale social change.

 There is, as alluded to at the beginning of this article, a visible, but as yet unfounded optimism, regarding the scale of FGM in Sudan. This false optimism (at least in relation to FGM prevalence) offers some interesting conclusions. The cynic may say that positive assessments of FGM prevalence characterize Sudanese flexibility, or rather the tendency to tell each individual what they want to hear. 

 A more rational observer, however, may connect this optimism to more fundamental change. The practice of FGM is less visible than it was 10 or 20 years ago. It is less ritualistic; less celebratory. Instead it is conducted with an air of secrecy.  Perhaps perceptions of social stigma are slowly shifting. It is in this manner that people see change occurring. While we are not there yet,  there is reason to be optimistic that progress in the struggle to eliminate FGM is not far off…

The power of ignorance in Sudan

On reflection my teaching in Sudan has been an absolute failure. My initial enthusiasm for combining English learning with interaction and discussion was quickly squandered among row-upon-row of blank-faced teenagers unaccustomed to thinking.

 After a number of mind-numbing discussions- devoid of either a worthy number of participants, or stimulating, critical content- I reverted to the spoon-feeding methodology, typical of the Sudanese classroom.

 At this point you may brand me lazy, lacking in perseverance or even, ironically, the creative determination to succeed. Moreover perhaps I am spiteful; overly hasty to condemn my difficulties upon ‘substandard’ students rather than myself- the ‘ make pretend’ teacher. Hear me out….

Revising old clichés

Like many, I came to Sudan in the belief that despite the inevitable classroom challenges, the enthusiasm and dedication of the students would shine through. I was wrong.

 I am tired of hearing those regurgitated clichés (and dare I say Sudan) that cast the ‘poverty-stricken’ students of third world countries such as Sudan as ‘refreshingly enthusiastic’; possessing a ‘thirst’ for learning that their Western contemporaries lack.

 Initially I embraced this narrative. I was encouraged by the abstract assurances that the students’ had a positive attitude towards learning. It was humbling to think that although lacking resources to an extent unimaginable in the UK, my students would be far more conducive and supportive to me, their teacher, than British equals. Naïvely, this is what I envisioned on arriving in Sudan.

Just as most British teenagers see school as an unwelcome obligation, Sudanese teenagers spend the day in anticipation for that all too distant promise of the school bell.  For them school holds out nothing to be enthusiastic about. It is a symbol of boredom, of repetition and rote learning, grammar and sweaty daydreams. In this vein the exercise of learning constitutes subjection to the teacher’s monologues.

 Disenfranchised and disillusioned my students are dead weights. The classroom is a prison, restraining students from expanding their minds and horizons. It is a place where passivity is actively encouraged.

 Looking back on my schooldays, I consider myself fortunate. Creative, discursive and engaging classes were the hallmarks of a good teacher. A student was encouraged to participate. The ability to question and criticise what one was taught were not simply the signs of academic prowess but also the benchmarks of academic achievement.

 The Sudanese curriculum disregards such skillsets.  Memorizing and reproducing the teacher’s monologues are apparently sufficient for life. The reality, worth and implications of this content is beside-the-point. After all everything relayed to them is considered fact; to question it simply upsets their sheltered vision of reality.

The deafness of dogma

 Despite my frustration, the attitude of my students is essentially inevitable. In fact the decay of criticality in Sudanese schools is simply the upshot of an unflinching, society-wide observance to government dogma. It highlights the power of ignorance in discouraging people to question and criticize the status-quo.

 The status-quo is the be all and end all of my student’s sensibilities. Anything that questions it is met by a shrug of the shoulders, an indication that everything they are told, everything they are used to is an incontrovertible truth-  while anything they are not told is probably not worth knowing.

To criticize, to question, to explore what one is taught are not merely neglected but shunned in the face of dogma. On the pretence of absolute truths, the mind becomes closed, the student unable to question what to them appear as facts.

 Take, for instance, a debate on co-education that I attempted to initiate. As students themselves the topic of co-education was something I expected them to engage with. In Sudan all secondary level schools are single-sex. Perhaps, I thought, they would view some of the deficiencies in their education through this wholesale single-sex schooling.

 To prompt some light discussion I raised some questions to the 60 odd boys in my class:

“Why do the girls get better results in their exams than you?”

“If co-education works in my country, the UK, why can it not work in yours?”

“Do you think we should have different work-places, hospitals and universities for men and women?”

 Retrospectively the path of this discussion was inevitable. Before we had even started the superiority of single-sex education had been established: ‘Islam’, ‘our religion’, the holy ‘Quran’ prohibits us from co-education. Without considering the intricacies or contradictions of their argument, the wrongness of co-education had been determined.

The burden of dogma

  For my students there was an unfounded, automatic causality between co-education and moral vice. My attempts to advocate co-education, merely for the sake of debate, were met by nervous giggles. In such circumstances possessing the audacity to question the existing logic paints one as renegade.

 Indeed, as an on looking teacher interrupted me to outline the righteous religious justifications for single-sex education, I was made to feel mistaken and ignorant. Even arguments clearly endowed with a subjective logic, such as the question of co-education, are seen in black and white absolutes. There is a clear right and wrong, Islamic and un-Islamic argument.

 The burden of dogma makes it nigh on impossible for one to consider themselves mistaken. In such a dogmatic society people do not know what it is to be critical, because criticality is seen as somehow treacherous.  It renders someone blasphemer, traitor, and Zionist. To be a Muslim and yet still believe in co-education is an equation that doesn’t add up.

 Nurturing the Ignoramus

 It is unfair to equate ignorance with specific beliefs or convictions. Rather ignorance is a state of following one’s beliefs and convictions blindly. By spoon-feeding students a diet of what it considers self-evident truths, the Sudanese authorities are, wilfully or not, nurturing a generation of ignoramuses. It is an imbalanced diet that binges on accepted theory and logic while forbidding rational reasoning.

 Attending a school prize-giving provides a good impression of the ignorance so endemic of Sudanese society. Amidst the shouts of ‘Allahu Akhbar’ (‘God is Great’), that follow and precede each speaker, it is easy to forget one is at a school and not a political rally. Sometimes I have difficulty in believing that the shouts of ‘Allahu Akhbar’ are simply a proclamation of faith.

 Rather it often seems confrontational; not so much an assertion of faith as a battle cry. Its echo eludes more to political expediency than the divine. By giving divine justification to the political realm it leaves the authorities beyond reproach. It takes hold, it claims people’s religious faith; manipulating religious belief for an unworthy purpose.

 The speeches at these school prize-giving ceremonies are exercises in brainwashing. They proliferate ignorance under the pretence of the divine. They are full of protestations against ‘our Zionist enemy’, giving the genuine impression that Sudan’s problems are a product of Israeli or Jewish (one cannot be sure) meddling. Although muddled by the relationship between Zionist, Israeli and Jew, ‘Zionist’ conspiracy theories expounded by the political elite flourish. The problem is people, politicians included, believe it.

  Ultimately this misguided view of reality is one that trickles-down to every level, every age group of society. It is manifested by unquestioning acceptance of the status- quo. While a dogmatic political culture fuels ignorance, the power of ignorance also enables a dogmatic political culture to prosper.

"La shukran al-awajib".

“No thanks for duty”.

“La shukran al-awajib”, Ishmael pronounces as he resolutely brushes away my outstretched hand of money, determined that he will pay for my groceries, and the additional 4kg of mangoes and bananas he has directed the grocer to add to our bags.

This is the same grocer that each week lavishes us with discounted and ‘complementary’ vegetables, yet decisively deflects my thanks and gratitude with that same understated, unassuming utterance “la shukran al-awajib”, or ‘no thanks for duty’.

 This Arabic dictum always curtails my attempts to express gratitude, as though my feelings of appreciation and sense of indebtedness are unnecessary, even insulting to those who see serving me as their duty. ‘La shukran al-awajib’ is a sacred, almost unbreakable maxim of extreme hospitality.

 In most societies the traveller is equivalent to a ‘visitor’. Hospitality is extended only so far as contractual obligations compel; only so long as the pleasure of the host persists. The purpose of serving a visitor is essentially economic. Value derives from exploiting the visitor’s consumer mentality.

 It follows that travellers become engulfed by a tourist industry exclusively preoccupied with enticing them to buy into certain products or services. One is not compelled to be hospitable. Rather, the extension of hospitality is dependent upon the intrinsic, material value that a host may receive from choosing to be so.

 In contrast the Sudanese host sees it as a moral responsibility to be hospitable. The notion that this hospitality should be reciprocated, let alone paid for, is not merely alien but damn right rude. In this vein the traveller is equivalent to a ‘guest’ for whom every effort should be made to make life that little less burdensome, that little less costly.

 A visit to the market in Sudan is characteristic of this approach. In virtually every other country I have visited (with the exception of Pakistan) it is inevitable that I, as a white foreigner, will be charged a significantly inflated price, however vigorously I barter. Predatory pricing is common practice. Market vendors are advantageous, viewing travellers less as guests to be welcomed and cherished, than naïve and credulous fools primed for exploitation.

The Souq

 In Sudan the opposite is true: as a white foreigner I will (often) be charged less than the going rate. In fact it is commonplace for Sudanese friends to receive discounts when I accompany them to the market.

Tourism is non-existent in Sudan. Selfishly I hope this remains the case (although this is not to say that the lack of tourism investment and initiative is not a grievous missed opportunity). The total absence of a tourist industry, allows the traveller to enter into a far deeper, more personal relationship with Sudan and Sudanese people. Unfettered by the dollar signs which equate each traveller with financial gain, Sudanese people welcome you into their homes; not merely allowing but urging you to experience life from their perspective.

Mother of Ashes.

  Our trip to the village of Um-Ramad was testament to this spirit of generosity and sincerity. Meaning ‘mother of ashes’, the name Um-Ramad allegedly symbolizes the burnt coals of the ceaseless cooking provided by female villagers to passing travellers. As the duration of the journey from El Obeid to Um-Ramad passed 90 minutes - confirming that the 30 minute approximation had indeed been calculated by Sudanese valuations- and the heady smell of leaking oil was inducing delirium, this promise of food was alluring.

 Roughly an hour and a half to the West of El Obeid, our journey to Um-Ramad took us along dusty tracks linking the little known, oasis like villages of the Southern reaches of the Sahel. Heading in the opposite direction were nomadic camel and cow herds, aiming to reach Souq al-Nagar (the Camel Market) on the Western fringes of El Obeid, in time for the Saturday market. After journeying by foot from South Darfur for over three months, livestock in tow, the final destination must have seemed elusive, despite its relative proximity.

  At the journey’s half-way point the vast flatness of the landscape was briefly interrupted by the small mound of the Greater Nile oil pipeline, stretching from South Sudan, and the war-torn border regions, to Port Sudan on the Red Sea Coast. Crossing the pipeline I was struck by the stark dichotomy of this simple and bare region of scattered subsistence villages against the international significance of the oil pipeline. Soon enough the vast emptiness unravelled, revealing a few customary mud and stick houses that marked the near edge of Um-Ramad.

Um-Ramad

 Arriving in Um-Ramad, we were met by Mohammed , a colleague and friend who had kindly invited us to come to his home.  Quite possibly slaughtering a sheep to mark our coming, Mohammed and his family had gone all out to meet his village’s reputation for unparalleled hospitality. Joining us for breakfast were numerous cousins and neighbours, eager to both greet us and underline that we were free to visit their homes at any time. Exclamations of ‘Marhab’ (welcome) echoed from every direction and with each new visitor.

 After breakfast Mohammed and some male members of his family gave us a tour of the village. Considering its size, Um-Ramad has a large Souq selling many locally sourced products such as simsim (sesame) oil, cackadai (hibiscus), dried bamir (okra) and tomatoes. During the week the majority of these traders switch their operations to the larger market of Souq Wadi Keifa in El Obeid. Our progress negotiating the Saturday market crowd was slow; made yet slower by the relentless handshakes and small talk customary of Sudanese social etiquette.

 Escaping the throngs, Mohammed led us to the Western perimeter of the village and the ‘animal reservoir’ used by nomadic herds. Recuperating around the dwindling pool was a sizeable caravan of camels- perhaps 50 in number- owned by the Shanabla tribe. Understandably, the Shanabla ‘herder’ and his son, were initially reluctant to let us linger around their camels.

 Nowadays most of these nomadic tribes carry guns as a means to ensure the safety of their livestock in the increasingly lawless regions of West Kordofan, South Kordofan and Darfur. The sizeable risks they face inevitably encourages a mind-set of suspicion towards strangers. Nevertheless, once our Sudanese company had established that their tribes actually shared an amicable relationship with the Shanabla, the man’s demeanour softened considerably, such that he even ushered his son into our photo-shot!

'Shanabla' Camels

 Before leaving Um-Ramad, the women of the village had gathered to dance and wail us goodbye. Unfortunately Adam, our driver and security escort, was growing restless, worried that if we did not leave soon his lightless 1982 Toyota Pickup truck would not be able to navigate us home. Thus, loaded with us as well as 10 villagers looking to hitch a lift to El Obeid, the pick-up truck hastily started up again.

Romance in the desert

 Our race against the sun was a close run thing; we just about made it to the tarmac road, where we could hitch a lift back to town, before the darkness completely enveloped us. As a final gesture of generosity from the ‘Mother of Ashes’, the villagers handed us a sack of tomatoes; inevitably far in excess of what we could consume.

Conditional or unconditional hospitality?

Every effort is made to impress. Not only are we served up a feast at each new home  we visit, but our hosts, perhaps conscious of the overwhelmingly negative image of Sudan shown to the world, seem determined to reassure us that there is a kind, generous, welcoming, tolerant, rich, vibrant, traditional and youthful side of Sudan snubbed by the Western media.

 No doubt they have a point. Yet, the cynical side of me still wonders whether this hospitality would be so ubiquitous of our time in Sudan if I was not a (non-Jewish/ Israeli) ‘Khawaja’…. I am convinced that hospitality in Sudan is not always as unconditional as Sudanese people, and for that matter some non-Sudanese observers, like to think.

The kindness and generosity rendered to us embodies an unspoken acknowledgment of the Khawja’s pre-eminence; an internalization of an implicit racial hierarchy that frames the white man as the VIP. If one views unconditional hospitality as ‘supporting the transition of newcomers into the community without conditions’, I am afraid that I have received the red-carpet treatment while non-white travellers have been disregarded. 

Teaching in Sudan: challenges and criticisms.

Overwhelming expectation

Expectations can be overwhelming. The unrealistic optimism of ministry officials, teachers and students in the Khawaja’s capacity to cultivate English fluency in Sudanese schools bordered on delusional. It is fair to say that if these miraculous expectations constitute the benchmark of success, my results certainly fall well below par

At an abstract level the quality of spoken English has not suddenly improved over the course of the last six month. Moreover, there has been no tangible progress in establishing the intended ‘English Clubs’ and ‘Teacher Workshops’ (I put most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the inactive ministry personnel). The weight of overwhelming expectation has the tendency to bring my inadequacies and inexperience as a teacher into ever sharper focus.

 Yet, observing the teaching of my colleagues such concerns soon fade into irrelevance. Complacently, I find confidence in their shortcomings. Not only does the question ‘how much worse can I be?’ seem reassuring, rather than an ominous tempt of fate, but my presence seems to have purpose as well as the considerable support of both students and teachers.

 English fluency, and critical thinking have fallen victim to decades of neglect and inattention. Teachers, whether bound or simply blinded by the existing English curriculum, curb student engagement in learning. SPINE led learning (Sudan Practical Integrated National English textbook- a title as mindless/ gobbledegook as the classroom instruction itself) has disenfranchised students.

Improving spoken English

We are part of a pilot program designed to improve the level of spoken English in Sudanese secondary schools. Under the leadership of the federal Ministry of Education, the program looks to reverse the damaging effects that aggressive policies of Arabization (since late 1980s) have had on the standard of English- particularly spoken English- in Sudan.

Some of our students

 The decision to change the language of instruction in Sudanese schools from English to Arabic made certain the deterioration of English. As an independent, post-colonial country, English was an invaluable resource that had the potential to set Sudan apart from many of its non-English speaking, developing country rivals. Instead, decades of neglect have left Sudan with its two youngest generations unable to communicate, and consequently compete, in an irreversibly global marketplace.

 While English still constitutes one of the core school subjects its teaching is plagued by incompetence and strategic failings. Teacher led-instruction, prioritization of accuracy over fluency and the neglect of speaking and listening skills, combines to leave most students (at least boys) in their last year of secondary school still unable to introduce themselves in English. The SPINE textbook is no doubt a considerable cause of this. 

 Teachers use SPINE as a kind of binding script, veering away from its text only for the purpose of translation to Arabic. The content is abstract, with chapters designated to such trivial garbage as ‘bird migration’. Reminders of Grammar are ever-present. Always, SPINE strives to be informative about Sudanese culture, ignoring the important association between a language and its cultural context.

 It follows that my main aim has been to improve speaking and listening skills among students. Interaction is at the core of these efforts. Where possible I have attempted to take a backseat role, giving the students the opportunity to speak and, importantly, think. Lessons have a functional focus that, devoid of the abstract drivel concentrated in SPINE, aims to utilize English through situational learning (eg. directions and invitations).

Abdul Karim end of year party

 In addition to my lessons I have taken a handful of English clubs. Due to scheduling difficulties, and a typical lack of urgency to resolve them, only one English Club has been fully established.  This is a shame as the relaxed, leisurely environment of the English Club prompts far more interaction than the more strict and rigorous format of my ordinary classes.

My school routine

My time is divided between three boys secondary schools: Ismahel al-Welli, Abdul Karim Hussein Jaffa and El Obeid ‘thanwiya beneen’. Over the course of the week I will teach about 15 periods to 15 different classes.  Given that one period is only 40 minutes it is unsurprising that progress can be slow. While the lazy side of me, euphemistically referred to as  ‘resourceful’,  recognizes that 15 different classes requires only one, maybe two, lesson plans; the earnest, hardworking side acknowledges that English advancement is limited with only 40 minutes a week to teach upwards of 60 students.

  Sudanese working life assumes a typically unhurried, leisurely pace.  The considerable time between lessons drifts unconsciously from one hour to the next. Amid the intermittent, two-way language lessons with my Arabic-speaking colleagues, discussions ebb and flow. Trivial conversations on football and WWE soon become consumed by engaging, sometimes impassioned, arguments on politics and the declining state of Sudanese society.

My colleagues at Ishmael al-Welli

 The time drinking shy/ jabanna, learning Arabic and lamenting about Sudan’s better days, drifts effortlessly by for the better part of the morning. Feeling as though the working day is yet to start the 11am breakfast has arrived. As is seemingly obligatory, the teachers and I once again stop for a protracted breakfast of fuul (beans) or adis (lentils) with bread.

 Unlike in the West, time in Sudan is infinite. It can be leisurely whiled away, unconstrained by the finite, Western bounds that see ‘time as money’. In Sudan time is never wasted. Rather, like the rich man who frivolously gives away money, the Sudanese teacher whiles away a few more hours. In this vein, my day takes shape…

*

One evening last week I received a phone-call from Ustaz Hussein, a colleague from one of the Boys Secondary Schools I teach at. Hussein’s phone-call, not unusually, regarded semantics; more specifically his planned designation of an English Summer School for students as a ‘Summer Concentration Camp’.

  Besides being considerably amused by this most unfortunate of gaffes (which is itself noteworthy), I was left astonished that Hussein, not only one of El Obeid’s most respected English teachers but also an English literature Phd student (albeit a Sudanese Phd…) , could be so oblivious to the connotations and context of this term. Over the past week I have come to view this bungled experiment with the English language as indicative of the wider failings of English language instruction in Sudan.

Unengaged and uninformed

 An Inflexible obedience to the curriculum, manifested by unyielding adherence to the SPINE textbook leaves the students and teachers completely detached from the cultural base that carries the English language. Whether by intention or not, the SPINE curriculum supposes that English can be taught without the ‘cultural baggage’ that accompanies it. Not only does this leave English lessons’ devoid of creative and engaging content but, more worryingly, consigns students, and teachers alike, to the perils of systemic ignorance. The consequences of this are that terms such as ‘Concentration Camp’ are lifted from their appropriate context, translated literally and ultimately, used erroneously.

I am under no illusions about the unfailingly low levels of English I have had to contend with in my boys’ secondary schools. Yet, it is not so much the low level of English as the interactive and communicative method of instruction that has presented my biggest classroom obstacle. Classroom utterances  of ‘ma inglesi…Arrabi! Arrabi’ leave me frustrated and perturbed rather than sympathetic or reflective. Exasperated I urge the students to ‘switch on their brains’. I let the long silences persist, determined not to spoon-feed the students appropriate words or dialogue.  It is such that the role-play on ‘directions’ becomes a battle of wills.

 On the one hand I obstinately persist, insistent that my class will instil at least an inkling of the creativity, critical analysis and assertiveness which is so thoroughly lacking in other classes. Thus, I wait; urging my students to at least attempt to utilize the newly gathered vocabulary to guide their partners around the fictional town outlined on the blackboard. Encouraged to ‘think’, the students are out of their comfort zone.   

 Thinking has become an alien concept in Sudan. In Sudan the teacher is the transmitter of knowledge; the students their passive recipients. The existing classroom environment prioritizes rote learning and memorization over student engagement and understanding. As one teacher trainer in El Obeid said ‘the students know nothing’.  Despairingly she anticipated the coming of age of a generation of leaders deprived of the ‘real knowledge’ necessary to navigate a more promising course for Sudan.

 Class time is overwhelmingly dominated by the teacher. With the duration of the lesson spent religiously regurgitating the content of the SPINE textbooks and simplified English novels (eg. Treasure Island), the teacher leaves little time for student involvement. Exams, simply in a reading/ writing format, are based entirely on memorizing this content. Teachers lack both the will and capacity to bestow their students with skills that go beyond the meagre ‘one word’ ‘fill in the blank’ demands of the exam curriculum. Learning literature by rote and grammatical accuracy are prioritized. Fluency is overlooked; creative impulse stunted.

An exception: dressed for their self-made English language play

 It follows that guiding a classmate around my blackboard town is beyond the passive student. Unable to flawlessly memorize either the teacher’s exact expression, or the abstract grammatical explanations misleadingly emphasised in SPINE, the student is frozen in his footsteps; incapable of solving the unexpected, undetermined problem that confronts him.

 Almost a fifth of my lesson has been consumed as I determinedly wait for my student to come to an answer of his own making. Neglected, the 79 other students in my class have become rowdy. My obstinate will to persist gives way to the spoon-feeding strategy. It seems that the classroom is a battle of wills that I will always lose.

A question of resources

Perhaps it is not so much the method of learning as the dearth of learning resources that blights English language instruction in Sudan. Hussein’s Concentration Camp gaffe seems insignificant when teachers are regularly misapplying fundamentals. During my time in El Obeid, I am yet to find a teacher who can correctly tell the time in English. Half past four, for instance, is ‘ four and a half’. Likewise, I have found no teacher who has mastered the word ‘ago’. Instead of ‘two years ago’, teachers will always say ‘before two years’. The language proficiency of English teachers in El Obeid falls far below any presumed minimal level of competence.

 Thus, far from being an asset to students’ comprehension of English the majority of teachers are, regrettably, a liability. Saturating students’ minds ‘with incorrect English- to the extent that teachers regularly interrupt students in order to ‘falsely correct’- the teachers are instilling flawed English in a whole generation.

 Communicating with the majority of English teachers entails a struggle that betrays their job title. The simplest question must be rephrased multiple times in order for its premise to be grasped. Quicker than anticipated, conversations reach a point of exhaustion. “Zuzu” represents the most worrying example of this dearth of competence within the English teaching profession. It is no exaggeration to say that even a question as basic as ‘Where are you from’ was beyond her understanding.

Teaching a class of first year girls, Zuzu was, predictably, out of her depth. Metaphorically, she drowned. I felt sympathy for Zuzu; bemused that someone so obviously incompetent and under-qualified had been permitted to teach a class of 70 girls. She spent the entire class incorrectly reciting the text book, only modifying her instruction to briefly, and inevitably incorrectly, write some misspelt ‘key words’ on the blackboard which the class would then recite. The rolling eyes of her students as well as their superior English ensured that the lesson was an exercise in her humiliation.

 The teacher-dominated classroom is in some ways inevitable given the enormous class sizes teachers must contend with. In a class of 80 teenage boys it is infeasible to expect to give each student the attention and supervision necessary for real progress to be made. Unfortunately I am left with a ‘greater good decision’: teach some students something or all students nothing. As such, I decide to leave the raucous back-rows (often those students whose parents lost out in the competition to render their children front-row seats) to their own devices; only intervening when their disorderliness threatens the remainder of the class.

  The six schools we teach in are all ‘Model Schools’. Enjoying model status entitles a school to a greater concentration of financial (higher school fees) and material resources than non-model secondary schools (although these resources are not apparent in the model schools).  Supposedly, the model schools are composed of the more academically gifted students, empowering them to acquire a reputation of excellence that other schools lack. However, the link between academic proficiency and model status is not straightforward.

 The make-up of the model school directly parallels that of El Obeid’s more affluent communities. Naturally, the more academically gifted emanate from educated households, more likely to be found in richer neighbourhoods. Conversely the less academically gifted originate from less educated households, more likely to be found in El Obeid’s poorer neighbourhoods. The model school is a clone of the most prosperous families

 Perversely, public resources are concentrated in communities most financially and socially able to acquire them. Communities which lack these means are left perpetually under-resourced. In order to retain their model status schools, not so secretly, manipulate academic statistics.

 Those students who achieve sub-standard results in their second year (of three) of secondary school are grouped in the same class. Although still receiving their education at the model school- and required to pay the higher school fees- these students are not permitted to undertake their Sudan Certificate Exams (the Sudanese equivalent of British GCSE’s) under the name of the school. Instead they sit the Sudanese Certificate registered as attendees of ‘evening classes’. It is therefore misleading and overly simplistic to say that model school students are academically gifted students. It would be more accurate to conclude that the model school is the domain of the (relatively) wealthy.

 Manipulating exam results ensures that the façade of the model school, with its heightened reputation and resources, is maintained. Yet, in reality the level of excellence implied by the title ‘model school’ masks the wholesale deterioration of secondary school education in Sudan.

The "Khawaja Mentality".

…. Although my first year of teaching is drawing to a close (it seems I have barely started) this blog is yet to touch upon the ‘day-to-day’ realities and rituals of living in Sudan. With this in mind the following will frame my experiences of living in Sudan from the standpoint of the Khawaja, teacher and traveller. 

 Despite making every attempt to be inconspicuous, my residence in El Obeid has hardly gone unnoticed. Instead, like the ‘C’ list celebrity who does almost anything- but at the same time basically nothing- to raise their profile (as though famous for the sake of being famous), my exposure alone seems enough to ensure that heads swiftly turn, conversations abruptly change and one of a number of names is hollered my way as I pass on by.

 Indeed, it has proven nigh on impossible to escape the shouts of Tim, teacher, Ustaz, Christin, ‘white-boy’, nigger, ‘China’ and the like used to attract my attention. However, it is perhaps one name above all others that lingers on the lips of the Sudanese: “Khawaja”. Like an impulsive, excitable young child visiting a zoo full of rare and exotic animals , Sudanese drivers regularly slow down the traffic and wind down their windows just to exclaim ‘Khawaja/ Khawajia (f)’ in our direction…

 Khawaja is a term Sudanese people use when referring to foreigners, specifically white foreigners. In its spoken form its utterance evokes a palpable sense of the hospitality and warmth proffered by the majority of Sudanese. Far from feeling victim to some denigrating, discriminatory racial slur I feel recognised, even respected by this acknowledgement of my presence. I often consider it endearing how the ‘sita chai’ (tea lady) takes pride in remembering and recollecting the Khawaja’s preference for tea ‘bedoun sukker’ (without sugar), or how the young school-children pursue me with enthusiastic shouts of ‘Khawaja! Khawaja!’ simply in the hope that I may return their wave or, briefly speak English with them.

 But, unspoken, there exists an implicit ‘Khawaja mentality’. My white skin is a statement of difference, a presumption of status that is neither questioned nor censored, but simply given. Private, inconsequential moments are pierced by the stares of strangers, such that my nose pick, my absent-minded stumble or my subtle scratch become magnified where normally they would go unnoticed. Under these circumstances I feel the glare of countless eyes interrogating not only my every action but also my demeanour and appearance. Symptomatic of the ‘Khawaja mentality’ is its intrusiveness.

 However the ‘Khawaja mentality’ is not merely a superficial concept, devoid of deeper meaning and, by consequence root causes. Instead I would suggest that the ‘Khawaja mentality’ can be explained with reference to the idea of an ‘inferiority complex’ and ‘primitive’ understanding of difference.

1.  Primitive difference

The term ‘Khawaja’ intimates ignorance, rather than antagonism or indecency. Perpetual poverty as well as Sudan’s continuing status as an international ‘pariah’ has left Sudanese people isolated. Tourism is basically non-existent. Internal struggles for survival are pervasive. Exposure is limited.  Under these circumstances it seems no surprise that Sudanese people are highly sensitized to difference (whether in terms of skin colour, religion or language).  

 Moreover unlike the multicultural, multiracial and multi-ethnic diversity we are accustomed to in Western society, Sudanese society is still stuck in an ancestral ‘tribal’ mentality that views difference and diversity through a separatist mentality of ‘us’ and ‘them’. The importance attached to internal solidarity, by exaggerating the groups’ self-image, ensures that anything deviating from the groups’ characteristics (eg. racial difference) is seen in even more stark, black-and-white terms.

2. Inferiority Complex

My white skin is not merely a symbol of difference, but rather a ‘marker of status’. People assume that the ‘Khawaja’ is a source of betterment, development and prestige. From the students and teachers who, with neither evidence nor assurances in my ability, assume exposure alone will instill in them English fluency, to the ministry of education officials who act as though my presence is in itself a political statement of intent, it seems people have subconsciously internalized the tenets of the ‘White man’s burden’.

 With a non-existent tourism industry and limited international mobility (except from diaspora workers and political refugees), the Sudanese encounter with the Westerner- or ‘white man’- has overwhelmingly occurred within the context of colonialism and development (the NGO worker). Perhaps testament to how bad things have become since independence and, particularly, the commencement of Omar al-Bashir’s reign, the ‘Khawaja’ is both a reminder and promise of better days. We have heard numerous ramblings about general British ‘decency’ and the positive legacy the British left in Sudan, only to be destroyed by subsequent Sudanese regimes.

  Being in Sudan is good for the ego. I recently read that the roots of the word Khawaja are Persian, translating as ‘lord’ or ‘master’.  Whilst most Sudanese are unaware of this translation (most people use the term humorously), it embodies the undeserved deference rendered to the ‘white man’. The notion of the Khawaja is a false promise, a misleading and deceptive abstraction. In the current context of 'post development hype' fatigue this Khawaja illusion has become even more apparent.  Contrary to what people believe progress and development will not come at his hand. Similarly his pockets are not bottomless nor his mental faculties exceptional. The question begs therefore, with the exception of my ego, who exactly is the Khawaja good for?

Christmas…where Christmas does not [really] exist.

Reader Warning: Brevity is not something that comes easily to me. 

 Christmas in a place where Christmas does not exist can easily become a rummage for nostalgia, a futile pursuit that yields to the sentimental longings of carols, Christmas trees, brandy butter, mulled wine and the like. The blind pursuit of these yearnings ignores the cold and sober reality that Christmas dinner cannot be recreated on two defective gas hobs; alcohol will not make the  desired festive appearance unless one succumbs to illegally home brewed 'arragi' (and by consequence,  the 'anything goes' attitude of an alcoholic); and crucially even if one can find a suitable replacement Christmas tree, it will only be a matter of time until the festive spirit of generosity and giving is once again betrayed by an inescapable brand loyalty  to the 'masura' made in China (for Africa) ‘collection’, ensuring the life span of a Christmas present will be short. 

 With this in mind my sense of  'Christmassiness' extended no further than the pulpit of my classroom, where, in retrospect, my Christmas themed lesson was perhaps more a forum for failed evangelism than English language learning. Indeed, my Christmas nativity themed listening comprehension was largely disregarded with a curt declaration ‘we’re Muslim’, rendering my lesson plan utterly ineffectual! Perhaps you can now see how Christmas escaped me and, as such, I simply assumed 'C' and I were not exchanging presents this year… Despite your inevitable eagerness to cast me as a miserly Ebeneezer Scrooge I insist that I was more a pragmatist, making the most out of the ‘un-Christmassy’ reality we found ourselves in.

 It was this spirit of ‘What can we do well in Sudan’ that directed our pre-Christmas meeting with the Director General (our boss), Ishmael. Such visits to Ishmael’s office have become an enjoyable part of our weekly routine. As well as offering the best peanuts (Sudanese fuul) in El Obeid and, for that matter, rather good coffee (jabanna), Ishmael is also a source of unwavering support, particularly when it comes to the persistent encroachments of the security authorities. Moreover the DG’s insistence that German’s’- even now- claim racial purity, Sudanese people are actually fond of Jews and Obama is Sudanese, leaves us- somewhat strangely- always coming back for more. Accordingly our visits usually take up the greater part of the afternoon.

 Returning to our pre-Christmas meeting, 'C' and I were raring to make the most out of the three day holiday Ishmael had granted us for Christmas. ‘What about Camel’s?’ Given El Obeid’s rich camel heritage, as well as 'C's relentless recollections about her ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ moment(s) in Morocco , a camel journey seemed to be an exciting, and perhaps even feasible, way in which to mark our holiday. With some team brainstorming we then conceived the possibility of riding camels to a nomad school somewhere in the greater nothingness of Kordofan’s arid scrubland. Ishmael soon summoned Idris, the man in charge of North Kordofan’s nomad schools and, incidentally, the owner of a considerable camel caravan, to his office. Having received Idirs’s approval and kind offer to escort us, 'C' and I began to envision our own ‘Arabian Nights’ adventure. Our dreams of traversing the desert on camel-back in search of a nuclear, rarely intruded upon desert-dwelling tribe were, however, regrettably fleeting.

On the first day of Christmas….

While camels and nomad schools were indeed the order of the day, our journey was not quite the awe-inspiring, desert traversing adventure we had hoped for. Instead, having driven us barely beyond the populated borders of El Obeid, Idris stopped his pick-up truck and gestured us towards,’Shaf’, the solitary camel who had been enlisted to accompany 'C' and I for a ‘Khawaja and Camel’ photo-shoot . Roped in simply for the ‘benefit’ of 'C' and I, Shaf cut a dejected camel. His persistent gnarling, ensuing as soon as he was dragged away from consuming the stable’s fodder roof, spoke volumes of our collective sense of exasperation; traipsing around on a camel in front of a horde of school children and camera phone branding Sudanese men was not exactly how we had visualised our camel escapade.

Shaf

 After a quick breakfast of ‘aseeda’ (savoury Sudanese porridge) we left the enervating Sudanese petting zoo behind and, by pickup truck, continued our journey to the nomad school. Nomadic tribes have historically been a conspicuous component of North Kordofan’s communities, deriving from a pastoral tradition of animal husbandry that stresses the necessity of seasonal herd movements (largely dictated by the rainy season). In North Kordofan there are, generally speaking, two types of nomadic tribes: communities such as the Bagarra (cow), consisting of the Hawazma and Miseria tribes, who herd cows; and conversely communities, like the Kababish and Shanabla tribes, who herd camels.

 Nomadic tribes have traditionally been amongst some of the most conservative communities in Sudan (female circumcision, polygamy etc). There is a belief that education is redundant; a distraction from the more important jobs of tending to livestock and managing the household.  Even where basic education has been welcomed, albeit hesitantly, there exists a substantial gender imbalance as marriage- and a life of housewifery- is deemed more imperative for preteen girls than a basic level education. Consequently the Sudanese government consider the promotion of nomadic education as crucial in ensuring that this nomadic youth receive the same education opportunities as other Sudanese children.

 The initial product of the government’s policy to improve educational opportunities for nomadic children was the ‘mobile’ or ‘roving’ school. Instead of bringing the children to the school, the mobile schools project literally brings the school to the children via a kind of travelling teacher service. For all intents and purposes the teacher becomes a member of the nomadic group; travelling with the community while simultaneously adapting to their uncustomary, but requisite schooling schedule. Despite my expressed desire to become a ‘roving teacher’, we unfortunately did not find this first type of school on our journey.

 Rather, the school we visited was testament to the government’s efforts to ‘bring the children to the school’. Through preferential policies (school building) and financial incentives (school fees) the government has endeavoured to encourage nomadic communities to adjust their traditionally ‘mobile’ lifestyle. In exchange, the government establishes schools intended to provide not only educational opportunities but also a sense of stability, continuity and ownership to the nomad community. Thus, while the men of the tribe continue their traditional nomadic lifestyles, the women and children have begun to settle permanently. It was this kind of school that we ventured upon 30minutes to the South-West of El Obeid.

The nomad school

 Our visit to this emerging nomadic settlement was a tale of two schools. The facilities of the ‘old’ school (the only school for the previous eight years) were scarcely suitable for accommodating animals, let alone overcrowded classes of eager, yet deprived young children. With the exception of a few tattered tarpaulins, the classrooms were constructed from cheap, surplus natural materials that improvised shelter while, in reality, offering little protection from the harsh  weather of North Kordofan (haboob’s [sandstorms] and severe winds in the winter, scorching heat in the summer, and incessant rain in the autumn). Given these conditions it is remarkable that nomad families have stuck around for the past eight years; waiting patiently for the promised new school to be delivered.

....Inside the classroom

  Entering one of the all too permanent ‘stop-gap’ classrooms, it was clear that over crowdedness and lack of space was even more severe than in my secondary school classes back in El Obeid. Not only was my body arched over awkwardly for the duration of the ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes’ exercise, but also one hundred and ten small children were horded under the shade of the tarpaulin and fodder roof. It is impossible to dispute that our classes in El Obeid are overcrowded and under-resourced. Yet the scantiness of resources and investment as you move away from the regional hub of El Obeid, makes the former seem like a temple of educational excellence. However with the assistance of NGO’s such as the Community Development Fund (CDF) the government is- eight years later- on the brink  of opening a new all-weather school, equipped with chairs, desks, blackboards and even electricity. Although, given the tenuous Sudanese relationship with time (the recent ‘golden jubilee’ at El Obeid Secondary School for Girls occurred in its 51^st year), it would be prudent not to hold your breath…

On the second day of Christmas…

 Fortunately the second day of our Christmas holiday started in a more enlivening fashion than the first.  With two morale boosting Christmas Eve breakfasts of banana and Nutella pancakes (a Christmas treat due to the extortionate price of Nutella) as well as aseeda with gambo (an okra based sauce) and tagallea (tomato based) (from El Obeid’s famed aseeda maker ‘hajji cuckoo’) we, in typical Sudanese style, happily whiled away the better part of the morning waiting to be picked up .Finally a car was readied and, accompanied by Ustaz Mohammed (history teacher) and Adam (geography teacher) from Abu Sita school, we proceeded to ‘Jebel’ (mountain) Kordofan.

 Having conducted his phd research on Jebel Kordofan and its history, Mohammed acted as our personal tour-guide, providing direction to what would otherwise have simply been aimless appreciation of the area’s natural beauty. A quick, but noteworthy digression from our trip to Jebel Kordofan, is Mohammed’s virile ninety year old father. At ninety Mohammed’s father and his twenty-six year old fourth wife are expecting… defying what I assumed the biologically possible. Despite my initial unwillingness to believe, multiple sources have assured me that this pregnancy is, against all rationality, real. Before we leave El Obeid Mohammed has assured me that we will travel to his village and meet the man himself. In the meantime I recommended he start contacting Western TV producers, who would no doubt pay serious money to document this unheard of episode. 

  Jebel Korodfan is undeniably the most striking and imposing landmark within El Obeid’s vicinity. Situated about twenty minute drive to the South of town, the mountain’s reddish composition and modest undulations seem perhaps more outstanding given the dusty ‘flatness’ that, as though  boundless, extends to the horizon and beyond. I have repeatedly asked myself whether my appreciation of Jebel Kordofan’s view’s and vista’s is vindication of its geographic magnificence or, simply demonstration that North Kordofan’s flat ‘nothingness’ can even make the unremarkable seem remarkable. The term ‘nothingness’ is perhaps, in this case, overly disparaging. Since when was such vast simplicity deemed unspectacular and boring?

Looking to the South/ SE of Jebel Kordofan

 Although only 550m above sea-level (officially a hill, not a mountain), climbing Jebel Kordofan brings a sense of scale to the vastness of North Kordofan and, by consequence, Sudan. At the foot of the mountain lie a series of small villages constructed, as we have become accustomed to in Kordofan, from sticks and brushwood. Further away, toward the South-East, one can discern the silhouette of the ‘a-Dire’ mountains straddling the conflict torn North-South Kordofan border. As Mohammed guided us up through the raised valley separating Jebel Kordofan’s two peaks, the mountains rich historical legacy became clear. Lining our route were numerous burial sites; some with their lineage in the ancient Nuba kingdom,  other’s with a more recent Islamic heritage.  

 According to Mohammed it was in this Nubian period that Kordofan acquired its current name. Soon after making peace with the Ghodiat, ‘King’ Kordo/Kuldu’s goodwill was betrayed by these same, supposedly former, adversaries that he had made peace with. After successfully besieging Jebel Kordofan, the King’s seat of power, the Ghodiat assumed control of Kordofan from the Nuba. In ancient Nubian language it is claimed that ‘fan’ means ‘remember’. Literally speaking therefore, ‘Kordofan’ means ‘remember Kordo’; a lightly veiled warning that one should never forget who their enemies are. 

 Our last act of Christmas Eve was to attend the ‘Midnight Mass’ (actually at 9pm), held at El Obeid’s Catholic Cathedral, reputedly the biggest in Africa. Despite being in Arabic- with the exception of the service ending rendition of ‘Joy to the World’- the service was an eye-opening exercise in ‘spot the Khawaja’. Where we previously thought we had been alone, there are in fact a number of Khawajas- largely nuns from Comboni school and clergy from the cathedral- who, if only to raise their head to the outside world at the Catholic Cathedral, reside in El Obeid.

 One of our main motivations for attending the Midnight Mass service was the hope that there would be some ‘Christmassy’ African music to encourage a sense of festive cheer in us. While the choir was cheery enough, the supporting guitar was so amateurishly out of tune that listening to the music became a battle to catch the nice bits over the garish instrumental accompaniment. Equally disjointed was the constant sauntering of patients from the nearby ‘Kordofan special hospital’ around the Cathedral during the service’s proceedings. Although not suggesting anyone should be disallowed from attending the Christmas service, the ‘sauntering’ patients of ‘Kordofan special hospital’ appeared, like the guitar, slightly out of place. Saying this, the rest of the congregation seemed perfectly content…

On the third day of Christmas…

 Christmas day was a sombre occasion. To 'C's considerable dismay there were no Christmas presents to wake up to, nor alcoholic Christmas beverages to conceal any distant longings for at least some festive semblance. Instead we made do with a ‘special' Christmas breakfast of banana and Nutella pancakes, fruit salad and shayria (spaghetti with sugar and sometimes cinnamon or cardamom). The remainder of the day was spent moping…

Christmas breakfast 

 On Christmas eveining we had arranged to visit Ahmed’s (the head master of Igura basic school and former head of CAREint. Sudan) house, where a group of his 10-13 year old girls from Igura school had arranged a special Christmas party for 'C' and I. However, due to ‘technical difficulties’, we were unable to contact Ahmed and thus, to the consequent disappointment of his students, the party fell through.  Fortunately all was not lost…

  Rather it was decided that we should rearrange the party for New Year’s eve, ensuring that the girls’ considerable efforts in preparing the celebration would not be in vein. So to allow more students to attend, while also allaying the apparent concerns of some parents, the party’s venue was shifted to Igura school. Emerging on to the school’s roof terrace in the soft, ephemeral glow of the dusk twilight we were met by a guard of honour, clapping and celebrating our presence at their party.

Party games

To say that this New Years was a little different from those past is an understatement …instead of alcohol and Auld Lang Syne, this year’s motif was more ‘cherry pop’ (Pasaignaos) and Justin Bieber. Under the watchful supervision of a few of the girl’s parents (bringing me back to the days of childhood birthday parties) and with the mischievous encouragement of Ustaz Ahmed, 'C' and I were pressured into becoming the participants for a game of ‘in the hot seat’ eg. a license to ask any question, however personal, with the expectation that one answers truthfully. The questions could have been lifted straight from some teen magazine. Here’s a sample:

 “Was 'C' the first women you loved?”

 “If 'C' told you that she loved another man, but you still loved her would you stay with her?”

…And, my personal favourite:

“Are you a good boy or a bad boy?”

With the exception of the last question  (I felt neither embarrassment nor shame in admitting to the girls that I was, of course, a ‘very bad boy’) their remorseless interrogation left me feeling as though Guantanamo Bay would have been easy in comparison. Nonetheless, at least I could go home, reassured by the heart shaped ‘for my lover’ Christmas clock, that the students' love and adoration for 'C' was diminutive in comparison to the feelings reserved for me…