Within the school, we are constantly dealing with gender issues. Somaliland boys aren’t used to the competitive role of the female in the classroom setting. I have seen it myself; girls at other schools take a backseat in education, lacking the role models and support the boys receive. In fact, Deqa had been the only girl to score in the top 25 on our entrance exam with SOS. Now the Abaarso boys, accustomed to their gender roles, are watching girls compete against them and even surpass them in many ways. While some appreciate the girls’ achievement, others feel threatened.
How each boy views the issue seems to directly correlate with how he is faring in the transition to Abaarso. Boys like Mohamed and Mubarik are too busy trying to excel to worry about how the girls are doing. For others who aren’t finding it easy, the new world order has knocked them a bit off-kilter. I’m not even sure they can explain what it is that is bothering them, but they know something is wrong. By far the worst offender is a boy we’ll call Shakib. He isn’t picking up English quickly, and while he had come in with one of the higher math scores, he struggles to shift to our critical-thinking-driven classes. It seems to me that he wants someone to feel superior to, and with students surpassing him in the classroom, that someone is getting hard to find.
Not that I necessarily help the situation. I know that most of the boys believe they are smarter than the girls. Our boys need to see them as equals, and I am quite aggressive in making sure they see with their own eyes what the girls are capable of. When Nimo comes up to the whiteboard with her Dragon Problem answer, I call out, “Nimo’s on the second problem. Is anyone else even close?” It is a bit obnoxious, but I can’t help myself. Sometimes I go even further. “I thought all boys were smarter than girls,” I chide them. “Doesn’t seem like it.” They get my point, and the most resistant don’t like it one bit.
Not long into our first year, a small group of boys, led by Shakib, lashes out. Like the for-profit schools that insult Abaarso, these boys choose religion as their point of attack. Shakib all but declares himself to be the “commissioner of the religious police,” and quickly many of the boys fall in line behind him. It doesn’t take me long to realize a clear dynamic in the school; everyone is terrified that they will be labeled as “not religious enough” by this self-appointed “commissioner” and his panel. Shakib has essentially seized power.
One of the first clues that awakens me to the religious posturing occurs in a meeting with the students after showing them a film. I thought showing movies would be a fun way to hear and learn English, while also learning about the world. As we are in Africa, I decide to show Hotel Rwanda, the story of a hotel manager named Paul Rusesabagina, who gives refuge to a thousand persecuted Tutsi tribesmen during the Hutu militia’s siege in Rwanda. It is a good movie with a powerful message.
The day after the movie, we hold an assembly. I ask the kids if they liked it. One of the Abdis replies, “We liked it, Teacher, we liked it, but there was something in this movie that was against our religion.”
“The genocide of innocent people?” I ask, certainly hoping that is the answer.
Dismissing that, he refers to the part where the husband and wife characters kiss. “We know Rwandan men and women kiss, but we are not really supposed to see that.”
Abdi is referring to the scene where Paul, the main character, and his wife are on the roof of the hotel, and he tells her that if the hotel gets invaded, she should gather their children on the roof and together they will jump to their deaths. “The machete is no way to die,” Paul tells her, after which he kisses her. It is not a sexual kiss in any fashion, but rather a solemn kiss of what could be a “good-bye.”
If a vote were taken for “least religious student on campus,” I’m quite sure this particular Abdi would win. If it were an anonymous election, he’d even vote for himself. Yet his public response about the film shows that each and every student fears for his or her religious reputation, and fear is exactly what the so-called religious police will use.
Which is not to say Abdi is wrong. From then on, we will not let the students see anything that can be considered remotely romantic. We screen every movie first and time how far into the film each potentially offensive scene occurs. Right before a “censored” scene, we pause the film and cover the projector with a sheet. The most ridiculous part is that every time we do this, a bunch of kids boo, showing just how confused they are. Eventually, we take the further step of having the boys and girls view movies separately.
Another issue arises when I coach the Abaarso girls at basketball. Many of the girls have never participated in gym before. A few others have, and have even been taught sports by a male coach. That first year, I am the only adult on campus who knows how to coach basketball, and some of the girls have expressed an interest in the sport. The girls play dressed from head to toe with multiple layers, but nonetheless, Shakib, the thorn in my side, makes it an issue, saying it is inappropriate for males to be coaching the girls. Eventually, I stop. The girls aren’t happy about this, insisting there is no religious basis for me not to be their coach. “If a Somali school has a male coach, why can’t we?” they ask.
“Because we aren’t a Somali-run school and I’m not Somali,” I tell them. “Get used to the double standard.” This fight isn’t worth having. I’d never accept the girls getting an inferior education. If I thought I was compromising on that issue, I’d fight it hard. But none of them is going to the Women’s National Basketball Association, so getting exercise is enough.
Shakib doesn’t stop there, however. He and his group begin voicing opposition to male teachers spending time helping female students, though they don’t say a word about boys spending time with female staff. Religious belief is just a disguise in this case; it is not the true root of this rebellion. If Shakib were actually pious, then we wouldn’t have caught him blatantly cheating.
The situation comes to a head when a reporter from the United States wants to interview our students. I arrange for five of them, three girls and two boys, to go to Hargeisa to meet with her. The boys are very late getting to the bus, and I don’t want to miss the reporter, so we leave without them. The reporter meets us at the Maansoor Hotel and interviews the girls. Coincidentally, this is the same night that Ahmed Mohamed Mohamoud Silanyo wins the presidential election, and the victory is announced in a press conference held at the Maansoor. This turns the hotel into a mob scene, and it is hard for us to get out. The bus gets back as best it can, but not until ten or eleven that night.
The next day, a large group of boys tell me they need to meet with me. Of course, they are led by the self-appointed “commissioner” of what has become Abaarso’s religious police. In front of all the boys, Shakib points a finger in my face and scolds, “You will not spend time with the girls!” You will not this, and you will not that. Another boy chimes in. “How do we know you were where you say you were?” he challenges. “Prove it!”
But the “commissioner” and some of his deputies aren’t done. They persist until I call all the boys to the lecture hall for a meeting. Once again, Shakib points his finger in my face making demands, and this time I’ve had enough. “Here’s the deal,” I say. “I’m leaving the room right now and so are all of you. If you come back here in fifteen minutes, then I’ll assume you want to be part of my school and that you will be students. You will never be so disrespectful to a teacher again. If not, the gate is open and all of you are welcome to leave. I’ll just make Abaarso an all-girls’ school.”
Every boy comes back to the lecture hall, and the direct confrontations eventually come to an end. Shakib continues his reign of terror over the student body, but eventually he and other troublemakers will leave Abaarso; almost all are students who have struggled to perform. The boys and girls are equally thrilled to see Shakib go.
I realize this story paints an unfairly poor picture of the boys, who, like all the students, are growing up. One can’t judge them on this behavior any more than we can judge students for initially cheating. In time, the boys become great supporters of the girls. It takes a while, but they come to see the girls as sisters and applaud the girls’ successes as victories for all of Abaarso and even Somaliland. They also come to see that the teachers care as much about them as about the girls, so rather than fighting the positive teacher-girl relations, they should just develop their own strong connections with the staff.
As I often remind myself, no one ever said I’d be handed a glossy finished product. The point of education is to help the raw material grow into something special, and that’s exactly what is happening. We are building something special, and we are all in it together.