Entrance to the Aga Khan Secondary School
Class rooms where I attended Form I-IV
Courtyard where student congregate under the shady trees during recess
Center courtyard now converted into a basket ball court.
Muhimbili Primary School Entrance
Assembly student area.
“Teaching is a cursed profession in Tanzania. Teaching in Tanzania is a punishment ,” fumed one 27 year-old primary school teacher, reported in This Day.
I had read this gloomy article in This Day on Nov 2nd. Propelled by an overpowering sentiment and the plight of the primary education sector depicted in the paper, I chose to visit my school Muhimbili Primary School on United Nations Road, fearing that it too might have fallen prey to similar fate that Mtambani Primary School—and others up country—chronicled in the paper had: unpaid, underpaid, and overworked teachers; overcrowded classes; under qualified teachers; and disrespect for the profession.
It is ironic that the late father of the nation, Mwalimu, was so dedicated to ensure that primary education was an inalienable right and free to every citizen, just as clean water and primary health. Yet the country’s education system today, at its rudimentary level, falls dismally short and unable to deliver its populace one of Mwalimu's visionary goals.
Why? What went wrong along the way, in the transition from Mwalimu's socialist policies to the liberalization polices of Mwinyi, Mkapa and JK? Is it too early to judge? Do we need three decades to realize a vision? Do we have any tangible results to prove the policies presently adopted have met the stated goals—or some of the goals?
Or are our current leaders devoid of vision? Is the Minister of Education and Vocational Training, Mrs. Margaret Sitta, not up to the task? Or did she inherit a flawed set of policies dictated by the donor NGOs? Should Tanzania model and formulate its own social policies, from the grass roots, from bottoms up—at the village and rural, working it way up to the metropolitan areas, and finally up to the regional and national level— and not dictated by the donor nations with their grandiose Millennium Development Goals ?
These are not easy questions to answer, and depending who you cast these questions to —whether the NGO think-tanks or the government officials—the debate is invariably futile—and often circuitous and contentious.
Regrettably, my day at my own primary school, attended over 3 decades ago, unraveled certain unpleasant realities of the issues and echoed sentiments raised in the aforementioned paper. To compare it then and now is unfairly and invidiously cruel—it would lend itself to nostalgia, to times of inequity. Yet one cannot dismiss the reference to it.
Dusty-green iron gates, manned by an Askari, barricade the once open entrance to the drop-off area. Inside parked SUVs crowd the gravel staff parking lot. An imposing jacaranda tree casts is shadow on the cars and path to the low white and blue cement dwellings that house principal and administrative offices. Along the front of these offices are potted fern trees between blue poles. On the ground, before a small raised step, lies a fallen tree trunk.
I recall my days of receiving corporal punishment in the offices in front of me for my devious and disruptive behavior at the hands of then headmaster Mr. Meghji.
Immaculately dressed African boys and girls in uniforms (white shirts and blue shorts or knee length skirts), with their colorful backpacks, congregate in the courtyard. When I had attended this school, it was an exclusive boy’s school. Now it is a co-ed, and girls, some Muslim with their head white headscarves matching their shirts, play alongside the boys.
And behind the low administrative office block loom the two-storied class rooms with their distinctive bee-hived walls for ventilations facing the open courtyard, the assembly area, the dusty track and the patchy football pitch.
Scattered around the school compound, planted randomly, are trees—mango, jacaranda, ferns; it is a new addition to the landscape, as I don’t recall as many trees then.
Blooming crimson hibiscus and bougainvillea flowers add contrasting hues to the outside stained white walls of the teachers’ staff room.
I peer inside the dark staff room from the open windows without panes, and notice three teachers sitting in a room talking. They stop, and one with the head scarf addresses me in English: "Yes, can I help you."
I respond in Kiswahili, and told them who I was and that I wished to speak to them. They effusively welcome me inside the staff room, which a long time ago I had frequented to collect my marked homework, or receive detention notes, and have student-teacher chats.
Why the dark room?
The electricity has been cut—a common occurrence in Dar because of the recent overloaded grid—jokes they youngest teacher.
Does the school have a generator?
The question prompts a deriding laugh—and it was queue for me to prod, so I broach the issues about the state of primary education in the city discussed candidly in the paper. They studied the newspaper, scrutinizing in the dark, trying to make the gist of it from the filtered light pouring through the broken glass window.
Yes, it is a problem they acknowledge without reading the entire piece.
Are you being underpaid, overworked?
“Are you a reporter asks the older one, who had welcomed me?”
“No,” I assure them. But my assurances do not convince them. They evade my pointed questions, just as others had for the newspaper. But it was apparent from their initial reactions—and my observation and walking around the crowded class rooms—that the problem is prevalent and old.
Ms. Ayasa, the Kiswahili teacher, guides me around the class rooms. It is recess time so most of the pupils are out and about. In the assembly courtyard, I recall my early years, not any different in wonder and delight from these African pupils, their eyes showing a glimpse and sparkle of a great future and promise. But will they go ahead to the next level? One report suggests that only 9% of the primary school children go onto the secondary schools. The drop out rate is dismally alarming, attributed partly to secondary school fees, and partly to lack of quality education to prepare for the next level.
In 2005, Milton Nkosi of BBC One Planet explored if Tanzania
I left to discover if the privately owned Mzizima Secondary School, up the road on United Nations Road, past the Jangwani Secondary School—which for me has had a soft spot in my romantic psyche; more so recently as some tender moments have unearthed from a buried past—is afflicted with similar policy malaise.
Also, I wished to visit for sentimental reasons, for it was at Mzizima Secondary School South Africa , particularly in Soweto
The outward facing white-washed walls and the freshly green painted iron sentry gate, manned by two burly Askaris, with mandatory sign-in book, keep the stragglers from wandering inside the school compound. After time, and pleading of my purported visit, they finally let me in.
Leaving behind the two sentries, I stroll across the dirt patch toward the principal’s office, once occupied by a formidable lady, Miss Datoo, who was renowned for her ferocious temper, control and the swift paddle (many recall their welts on their bottoms from it).
To my right is a school garden with shadowy trees and wooden benches, where older students (probably form six) languish under the shady trees, escaping the mid-day heat. During my secondary days we had tilled these fields for the self-reliance period under the educational policies of Mwalimu.
In the office I request to see an English literature teacher, after speaking to the assistant principal Mrs. D’Souza, who was forthcoming and cooperative. I peer inside the familiar principal office now occupied by an austere looking European lady—the new headmistress.
There is the usual buzz of activity—teachers, students, visitors or parents awaiting their call for visitation. Some youngsters in civil clothes linger around nervously. Banners proclaiming Excellencies and wooden plaques proclaiming Merit awards adorn the walls. Next to it, a framed plaque boisterously announces the two track educational system—National and Cambridge
I explain to Mrs. D’Souza my desire (and reasons) as an alumnus to see an English literature teacher—and if Mrs. Almeida is still alive.
“We don’t know, really. It has been a long time. I have only been here few years. I know it was a different era then. I will ask my assistant to locate our staff for you, if you don’t mind waiting,” she said.
I am led to another building with the teachers’ study area.
“It is our teacher’s recreation area, where they can relax or surf the Internet or socialize. Some even prepare for their next class. It is their general purpose area,” my escort, a delightful and well spoken African woman explains.
“So you were a student here, right?”
“Yes, almost thirty years ago. The school layout looks the same except got a face lift and there are more trees, I notice. I recall everything. Over there, is where I did my form 1 and 11, then down by the courtyard were my form III and IV. Are those science labs?” I point towards my left, across from the central square.
She laughs and says,” Yes, Thirty years, and you still remember. I wasn’t born yet.”
We both laugh.
“Did you study here?”
“No... No. I went to Zanaki Girls Secondary School
“Do you like what you do?”
“Yes, I handle accounts, administrative duties, and students’ appointments…many things.”
Up a flight of stairs, we walk through two sliding doors into a well lit air conditioned room. Along one side of wall are computer terminals over which a few teachers are crouched, typing or surfing. On the desks pushed against the opposite wall lay half-dozen overhead projectors, and along one wall facing the center courtyard are sets of white boards with markers and dusters. Wall-lined bookshelves house reference books, dictionaries, and other bounded volumes of encyclopedia.
In the center of the room, on one desk, two student—Asian and African—work diligently work on their assignments, and opposite him sits an austere young European teacher, marking student papers, his hand with the red pen swiftly moving across the pile of unmarked papers.
A middle aged, bespectacled and dignified African woman with head scarf approaches us.
“This is Ms. Asha Kamagha, one of our English and Swahili literature teachers you requested to speak to.”
Ms. Kamagha gestures me toward an empty desk with two chairs while my escort departs and disappears through the doors. Her narrow hooded eyes behind the glasses are wistful, and her equanimity puts me at ease.
The naked contrast between the two staff rooms is ostensibly abject and depraved. Perhaps, unfair—one being a government primary school, with no school fees and meager budget, and the other a private secondary school, with substantial fees and abundant budget, but the ambiance, quality of education, the amenities and the state of the buildings is a stark reminder of the two inequitable sectors of education: private and public (at one point after nationalization the Government Schools produced the top quality students; now sadly, it has the highest drop out rate.)
“You have an impressive staff room, well equipped,” I said.
She looked around and gave me the approving smile, and said, “Compared to where I worked eight years ago, yes, I could say it is. Half of the stuff available here for teachers, I have no idea, because I don’t know what does and does not exist.”
Where had she worked before she joined?
She said she came back from retirement after her husband had died, merely out of boredom, but primarily because her government retirement could not sustain the cost of living.
A teacher for nearly 20 years up north in Moshi in the government school she has seen the transition—from once a reputable and prestigious government sector to declining and disreputable one. And it echoes deeply her comments.
“There is a stark difference between the two sectors [private and government]. When I first came to Mzizima, about three years ago, I was astounded at the abundance of resources and equipment at teachers’ disposal. You know, teachers’ private desks, presentation materials, clean black boards, chalks and dusters, photo copy machines. I mean, yes, private sector has schools, but so do government, with all the donor funds.”
So why is there such a disparity?
She thinks it is the education policy and lack of vision and leadership.
“Teachers need to have incentives, both in the government as well as private sector, to teach. They need constant training to advance their qualification, and awarded with adequate compensation.”
She has strong opinions about the present readership levels in the country at large and student aspiration in both sectors. She claims reading is substituted with watching television and playing video games (not any different in the some of the industrialized nations, one would contend).
How do you explain it?
“Parents,” she says, shaking her head with disapproval. “They are too busy making money. The kids go home from school, seat in front of TV and watch junk. They hardly read.
“Have you recently watched the disgusting episodes of Big Brother Africa? How can they show such distasteful episodes on prime time national television? What is the underlying message to the kids? That such blatant promiscuity is okay?”
“Yes,” I have and knew what she was referring to.
Of course, she adds there are professional parents, and one sees in their children values instilled to embrace education, to strive academically, and literacy and merit is vital to the future of the country, to build a civic society.
How do you view the transition from Mwalimu days?
“Of course, I mean yes, it is progressive. And progress has its negative aspects as well. For women it has opened up doors to sectors of the society such as media, politics, enterprise and business. They [women] no longer aspire to be ‘assistants’. They go for the extra mile to empower themselves. Education is the key to self-empowerment and independence.”
She cites examples of her two daughters, who chose not to go into traditional roles of teaching. Instead, they elected careers in business and finance, and now hold reputable and high positions.
Though Tanzania
What can be done about it? I am not sure I have the answers, but the policy makers in the ministry of education, the academics and educationalists must address the long-term development goals of the country’s children.
For without the basic quality of education, without the qualified and well-compensated teachers, and without the adequate facilities conducive to learning, it looses its bright future—and as an emerging developing country like Tanzania
References:
1. Interview Notes
2. ThisDay Nov 2, 2007
3 comments:
Way to go!......Keep on writing...S
Hey Jules
Thanks for sharing all your experiences. Well written piece.
Hello Jules, habari zako... Isn't it amazing that both of us happened to attend Muhimbili Primary and Mzizima Secondary school, lived in a house with a mango tree outside and then moving to the Bay Area?!! It's almost like living in each others worlds but only parallel to time... Your work is superb and thank you for bringing the precious moments back through your magical writing. I can't wait to share "Oyster Bay" with the rest... Shulz Kassamali.
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