Matthias Rathmer - Seeds of Wrath

‘He can’t read at all,’ Rania said, seeing me looking at him.

‘Can he at least say something?’

‘Guten Morgen! Ich bin zwölf Jahre alt.’

‘Not bad! How about if I teach him he’s a year older?’

‘What use is that to him?’

Rania was right and I start thinking of a sensible answer. What she’s doing is much better for him, enabling him to do sums, to read and write in his own language. Every scrap of his attention is needed.

‘He’s got another story book from Finland and one from France.’ Then she goes on to explain. ‘They’re donations. And when I tell them they’re allowed to do whatever they really enjoy for half an hour, he goes for one of those books.’

‘So he enjoys reading books he can’t make head or tail of?’

‘No, he probably wants to show that he’s keen to learn more than we can give him here.’

‘I see,’ I reply, never once having been in a situation like that myself.

Rania smiles as I eventually cotton on to her little joke and then wonder what she would do if it were true.

‘Once, his parents came here during break while he was playing with the others. They immediately took him home, saying he’d better get to work if he wasn’t learning anything.’

I pause for a moment, as surprised as I am touched. We both remain silent for a while and watch her pupils running with boundless enthusiasm after the ball or the constantly wobbly plastic disc. They want to learn everything, even how to play.

‘They come and go,’ Rania eventually continues. ‘A lot are here for six months, others for a couple of weeks. It’s nearly always the same. The parents come along and say their children have now already learned the basics.’

‘For what?’

‘For life. What else?’

‘They mean more for their life,’ I comment. ‘And what about those who could get into a good school?’

‘Many make the leap. Most don’t. But we fight for all of them.’ Rania looks full of thought. ‘Education in our country is a question of money more than anything else. If you’re born in Egypt and your family can’t find enough money to fund you, then you’re excluded from any useful education. And so you’re excluded from the community. And that’s regardless of your intelligence or your natural talents. There’s simply nothing for you in Egyptian society because nobody makes it possible for you to get in. The street children in slums like this really are the ones that nobody cares about.’

‘Why?’ I ask, cautiously, and struggle to find the appropriate words to say more because I can see Rania’s own words have really moved her. ‘What do you think? Why is education such a difficult thing in Egypt?’

Rania gives a shout of laughter before obviously marshalling her thoughts as any professional would. ‘The Egyptians have too many children. Year after year. Or should we say the poor Egyptians do. And this level of need brings huge problems. On top of that, we’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past and are still suffering from these now. Then there were reforms. Then the reforms were reformed. Secondary level was reformed but not primary. Then parts of the primary system were re-organised but others not properly aligned. Around only one third of children get a kindergarten place. There was, and still is, incessant reorganisation of some individual departments. But not of the whole system. And, of course, every reform costs money. A deciding factor is how much we can spend on our schools each year. If the state says it has to invest the money elsewhere then, as a rule, we are usually the ones who get nothing, or very little. And that’s how it’s always been.’ As she looked at me I saw something noble, almost prophetic in her face. ‘For example, we now know that under Mubarak, contrary to all promises made, millions of dollars were used for purposes other than those originally intended. That was money from abroad, from charities. It was intended purely for our schools.’

I am aware that Rania is deliberately using the first person plural here. While I’m musing on how much she sees herself as part of the system, she suddenly gets off the wall and starts pacing up and down in front of me.

‘We simply have problems that are too numerous and too big. Again. In our country education is first and foremost about money. Wealthy Egyptians can afford the international schools. They mostly offer a highly regarded education on a par with other countries. Only the elite can pay for this, or should I say only those who consider themselves to be elite.’

‘So, you mean the private schools, based in larger cities,’ I say and attempt to find the words to help rein in her increasingly agitated mood.

But there’s no stopping Rania now. ‘That’s right. British, American, German and more. There are two hundred schools like this. And when you think that on average around a thousand children go to each of these schools, so about two hundred thousand altogether, you’ll see how the majority are really up against it. More than twenty million Egyptian children and young people go to the state schools. And every day there are more. More and more. D’you see?’

I’m seeing here a woman so engaged with her cause it’s as if she’s been called before the President to tell him at first hand, free of all restrictions, what she thinks of the Egyptian education system.

Even more involved now, she’s striding back and forth as if giving a lecture, moving from left to right, then back again, gesticulating furiously. She then stops to emphasise a key point and disregards completely the kids who, quite bemused, are watching her unusual behaviour and following the speech.

‘Let’s take the Egyptian teachers. They’re mostly poorly paid and badly trained. They all earn the same amount regardless of their ability or commitment. That’s not great for anyone. The good ones teach privately and, in doing so, are letting down the state schools as well as the children they teach. This means there are divisions again. Once again money is guaranteeing a better education and thus better opportunities. Then there’s this. No matter how much money the government has in its budget for education, it’s never enough. Every year, for example, eighty five per cent of the state coffers alone goes on salaries. And that brings us to another big problem. The conditions and the equipment in schools themselves. Many buildings need repairs, many are so dilapidated that people must be afraid of moving around inside them. And sometimes I don’t have even a stick of chalk to write on the board with.’

Little Habir is standing in front of us in amazement and looks at Rania, her eyes wide.

Rania has made clear her concerns and views, all of which have become an furious irade, and now stops abruptly. ‘It’s good, Habir! Go off and play again, won’t you?’

‘When my Dad talks like that my Mum always ends up getting a beating,’ the child said. Her eyes raised all her fears, those she’s knowing from home.

When Rania translated that for me, I had a moment of horror. As I watch the girl skipping away I think to myself, she’s only got a couple more years. Then her father would marry her off to get her out of the house so she doesn’t cost him money any longer, so that she has children, so that she can support the entire family. For a future like this she really does not need any qualifications.

‘Sorry!’ Rania continued after a suitable silence about the girl’s wretched situation. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I get out of my cradle.’

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing and this confuses her, quite understandably, then recover myself and explain that the idiom she’s searching for about losing one’s composure is about a pram and not a cradle.