I’ve often mentioned the group of children I teach at the Sabarmati street school. Over the past five months, my relationship with them has evolved, and our mutual understanding of each other has fluctuated. I know their flaws. They know my weaknesses. I know they have bad habits of swearing and telling lies. They know how to test my patience.
Despite their bad behavior, limited attention span, and lack of ambition, I return to teach them each afternoon. I don’t mean to imply that I’m doing something great for the Sabarmati street children. Quite the opposite. I look forward to the two-hour period I spend with them each day as a constant in the otherwise unpredictable and emotionally trying environment that surrounds me. They keep me grounded and moving forward. When heat, mosquitoes and homesickness threaten to break my spirit, I remember that they will be waiting for me at 4:00 pm – a reason to wake up and face the day.
Manav Sadhna’s work involves a “value-based education” for the children we serve. Often, my lessons at street school involve a half-hour lecture on the importance of being punctual, and another half-hour on the reasons one should not hit his or her neighbor. It’s frustrating that the actual academic component of the curriculum makes such slow progress, but in the context of these children’s lives, the immediate value of personal hygiene and interpersonal skills far outweigh the potential usefulness of knowing their ABC’s.
This month’s lessons have been focused on discipline. My ideas of how students should be disciplined differ greatly from those of Kiranbhai, the official teacher at this street school. Kiranbhai grew up in an environment similar to these children, and went to a municipal school just as most of them do. He relates to the roughness of their home-life and the toughness of overworked government teachers. We’ve had many arguments about his use of corporeal punishment to discipline the children. He believes that threatening to slap them around, and occasionally following through, is the only way to get through to these children. I believe that it’s a cop out. Resorting to physical punishment may stun them into silence for a few hours, but the ideas of non-violence and compassion that are so central to the Manav Sadhna vision cannot be taught by teachers who do not subscribe to their importance.
Although I stand firmly by my position of no-hitting, I’m less resolute on how the goal of disciplining the class can be best achieved.
On Valentine’s Day, after an especially rowdy lesson, I was feeling discouraged and disappointed. My progress towards disciplining the class seemed to be going in the direction of generating a general dislike for the new “strict” me among the children. But as I walked to the road, Arun, a naughty fifth grader who I often have to scold, offered me a bright red rose.
“Happy Balentine’s Day Didi,” He declared proudly. I was touched by the sweet and simple gesture. I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze of endearment, but I refused to take the flower. “Give it to your mom,” I suggested, “It will make her so happy.”
Arun’s offering reminded me of how much love and tenderness I’ve developed for the Sabarmati children, and gave me hope that they reciprocated, just a little.
The following day, Kiranbhai agreed to try disciplining the kids by sending them home, rather than hitting them when they misbehaved. During prayer, when Kiranbhai tolerates absolutely no mischief, Arun peeked his eyes open and began giggling in the back row. Kiranbhai called him to the front of the class after prayer was completed, and berated him harshly at the same moment that his father was returning home from work.
Arun’s house is just a few meters away from the open area we use as our classroom, and we all sat in silence as his father dragged him away angrily. Kiranbhai attempted to continue the lesson without interruption, but the sounds of Arun sobbing and screaming as his father hit him, could not be ignored.
I felt sick. After a few minutes, Kiranbhai got up and went to retrieve Arun before his father did too much damage. He returned with the boy disheveled and puffy eyed, sporting red welts on his arms where his father had hit him with a stick.
My instinct was to wrap Arun in my arms and cry, but my guilt stopped me. Which is worse? Letting Kiranbhai slap the children around mildly, or sending them home to have their parents beat them so harshly? It was a lose-lose situation in my eyes.
At the end of the day, Kiranbhai explained to me a little about Arun’s home life. His parents had moved to Ahmedabad from a village, in hope of finding a better life, but were unable to move out of the slums. His father works at the railroad company during the days, and drives a rickshaw late into the night in order to support Arun and his two brothers. When they devalue their education and schooling, their father sees his efforts to give them a better life as a waste.
I don’t see these details as a justification for beating the young boy, but it does shed some light on the situation these families face. They are desperate to give a better life to their children, but the children lack the foresight to see that hard-work in school may one day have more pay off than an afternoon of playing in the river.
For the rest of the night, I could not get Arun out of my mind. I felt like I had failed as a teacher and a didi, older sister, by letting his father resort to such violence to discipline him.
Despite their bad behavior, limited attention span, and lack of ambition, I return to teach them each afternoon. I don’t mean to imply that I’m doing something great for the Sabarmati street children. Quite the opposite. I look forward to the two-hour period I spend with them each day as a constant in the otherwise unpredictable and emotionally trying environment that surrounds me. They keep me grounded and moving forward. When heat, mosquitoes and homesickness threaten to break my spirit, I remember that they will be waiting for me at 4:00 pm – a reason to wake up and face the day.
Manav Sadhna’s work involves a “value-based education” for the children we serve. Often, my lessons at street school involve a half-hour lecture on the importance of being punctual, and another half-hour on the reasons one should not hit his or her neighbor. It’s frustrating that the actual academic component of the curriculum makes such slow progress, but in the context of these children’s lives, the immediate value of personal hygiene and interpersonal skills far outweigh the potential usefulness of knowing their ABC’s.
This month’s lessons have been focused on discipline. My ideas of how students should be disciplined differ greatly from those of Kiranbhai, the official teacher at this street school. Kiranbhai grew up in an environment similar to these children, and went to a municipal school just as most of them do. He relates to the roughness of their home-life and the toughness of overworked government teachers. We’ve had many arguments about his use of corporeal punishment to discipline the children. He believes that threatening to slap them around, and occasionally following through, is the only way to get through to these children. I believe that it’s a cop out. Resorting to physical punishment may stun them into silence for a few hours, but the ideas of non-violence and compassion that are so central to the Manav Sadhna vision cannot be taught by teachers who do not subscribe to their importance.
Although I stand firmly by my position of no-hitting, I’m less resolute on how the goal of disciplining the class can be best achieved.
On Valentine’s Day, after an especially rowdy lesson, I was feeling discouraged and disappointed. My progress towards disciplining the class seemed to be going in the direction of generating a general dislike for the new “strict” me among the children. But as I walked to the road, Arun, a naughty fifth grader who I often have to scold, offered me a bright red rose.
“Happy Balentine’s Day Didi,” He declared proudly. I was touched by the sweet and simple gesture. I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze of endearment, but I refused to take the flower. “Give it to your mom,” I suggested, “It will make her so happy.”
Arun’s offering reminded me of how much love and tenderness I’ve developed for the Sabarmati children, and gave me hope that they reciprocated, just a little.
The following day, Kiranbhai agreed to try disciplining the kids by sending them home, rather than hitting them when they misbehaved. During prayer, when Kiranbhai tolerates absolutely no mischief, Arun peeked his eyes open and began giggling in the back row. Kiranbhai called him to the front of the class after prayer was completed, and berated him harshly at the same moment that his father was returning home from work.
Arun’s house is just a few meters away from the open area we use as our classroom, and we all sat in silence as his father dragged him away angrily. Kiranbhai attempted to continue the lesson without interruption, but the sounds of Arun sobbing and screaming as his father hit him, could not be ignored.
I felt sick. After a few minutes, Kiranbhai got up and went to retrieve Arun before his father did too much damage. He returned with the boy disheveled and puffy eyed, sporting red welts on his arms where his father had hit him with a stick.
My instinct was to wrap Arun in my arms and cry, but my guilt stopped me. Which is worse? Letting Kiranbhai slap the children around mildly, or sending them home to have their parents beat them so harshly? It was a lose-lose situation in my eyes.
At the end of the day, Kiranbhai explained to me a little about Arun’s home life. His parents had moved to Ahmedabad from a village, in hope of finding a better life, but were unable to move out of the slums. His father works at the railroad company during the days, and drives a rickshaw late into the night in order to support Arun and his two brothers. When they devalue their education and schooling, their father sees his efforts to give them a better life as a waste.
I don’t see these details as a justification for beating the young boy, but it does shed some light on the situation these families face. They are desperate to give a better life to their children, but the children lack the foresight to see that hard-work in school may one day have more pay off than an afternoon of playing in the river.
For the rest of the night, I could not get Arun out of my mind. I felt like I had failed as a teacher and a didi, older sister, by letting his father resort to such violence to discipline him.
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