Here's to Our Teachers

Here's to our teachers, all good and all bad. Some of who have lit the way for us, prepared a path, beating down the bushes, clearing away the thorns, while others have hindered us, scarred us emotionally, even tortured us. These are the people who we have entrusted to shape our lives, those who look after us in our most vulnerable stages. Alas, the teacher is not as respected as he/she should be. Teaching might be the most important profession there is, for without teachers, where would we be? This is our tribute, to both the good and the bad, the ones we've loved and the ones we've hated. You led us, guided us to where we are, and in influenced us in ways you can probably never imagine. For all you did, we thank you. Here's to you.

Once More, with Feeling by Pranaya Rana, Editor

There is one teacher I shall never forget. One teacher who was instrumental in my education, who helped me to see things for what they really were, who blew away my false vision of teachers as can-do-no-wrong supermen. This man, this ‘teacher’, I am indebted to.

His name I won’t say. He taught at St Xavier’s Godavari and came into the school while I was in fourth grade, 10 or 11 years of age, barely even a teenager. He seemed tall to me, well-built and wore combat boots. Often, there was a sneer on his face. One day, while in class, he asked a classmate to come up to the front. He had been talking to us about martial arts, particularly karate. This classmate mentioned, by way of passing, that our class was also learning martial arts, namely tae-kwon-do. As my friend walked up, this man sneered at him, “So you’re learning tae-kwon do? Then defend yourself,” and aimed a kick, straight at the chest of this 10 year old boy. My classmate went flying backwards, I don’t remember whether he cried or not, but here, my image of the teacher was forever shattered.

That moment is still ingrained in my mind: a man, at least 20 years of age, mercilessly beating down a defenceless,       10-year old boy. Unfortunately, that was just the first of many incidents with this particular ‘man.’ I witnessed another bone-shattering kick to the chest of another classmate, simply because he was the last person to finish brushing his teeth, on his way to bed at night (this was a boy’s hostel). Another time, when two kids got into an argument at night, they were both taken outside and made to slap each other for the amusement of this sick child-abusing bastard. They were outside my window and I heard the sound of slap after slap, punctuated by cries of “Harder! Harder! Or I’m going to hit both of you.” Yet another time, there being a commotion in the dormitory, I sneaked my head out of the covers and leaned over to look at what was happening, only to be slapped in the face from behind so hard that my ears rung all night.

After a year or so, this man left the school, I doubt he was kicked out for his atrocities, mostly he was just a useless, incompetent sad-excuse of a man who liked to beat up small children half his age. None of us complained back then, we were too afraid. Our principals and teachers were never the type to take the children’s word over the teachers. In their eyes, we were always wrong.

I realise this is but one incident. Teachers like this man exist all over Nepal, in almost every school. Teachers who take sadistic pleasure in abusing young children, throwing dusters at their heads, placing pencils between their fingers and smashing them together, psychologically hounding and abusing students that they ‘don’t like the looks of.’ In ninth grade, every computer class, I was sought out and harassed by a teacher who said he didn’t like me because I reminded him of a teacher who hadn’t liked him. This same teacher proceeded to do the same to my brother, long after I had graduated.

Teaching is supposed to be a sacred position. You hold the future in your hands, the way you treat these children, will form the basis for how they learn to treat others. You have been given the job of shaping minds, preparing them for the rest of their short lives, and yet, what do you do? You hurt, abuse, torture and maim these kids. These kinds of teachers  might not be in the majority, but it is a shame that they even exist in the first place. Their presence seems ubiquitous, everyone I know has a horror story of a teacher physically abusing them. Often, these stories are dismissed as lies and falsity, created by resentment towards a teacher who punished a student for legitimate reasons. This is how the principals and those in charge treat complaints from students. Kids, after all, have no brains, have no feelings, have no conception of right or wrong.

I was fortunate enough to come out unscathed. Maybe others haven’t been so lucky. This teacher’s day, this is not a celebration of the teacher, this is a condemnation of every teacher that has ever taken advantage of their position to ritually torture and 

abuse fragile children. I have had my share of amazing teachers, teachers who’ve shaped my life in positive rewarding ways and whom I am eternally grateful towards, but too often, the other side remains untold. Every year, there are glowing testaments in newspapers everywhere to the wonder and magnificence of teachers, and everyone looks the other way when a child complains that his/her teacher slapped them across the face for no apparent reason. So this is an appeal, listen to your children. Children are not liars by nature. And don’t let these sadistic impotent men take advantage of your children.

Losing a Mentor by Dipti Sherchan, Project Coordinator

My childhood memories are like a polariod snapshot, fading away, with me constantly trying to hold on to them. However, I do remember one significant person from my childhood who made me who I am today.

I do not know who I am today but for sure, I am a 21 year-old girl who writes with her left hand, eats with her left hand and you know the rest. Every time I meet someone, he or she is sure to comment on my left-handedness, "timilai thaha cha...left-handed manche haru ta bhagyamani hunchan ni"(do you know, left handed people are lucky). This innocent saying never fails to shoot me back to a fading memory of one particular person who made me "lucky."
She was my primary class teacher, Hema Rai. I only remember her face from the few pictures I have of her in my photo album. I do not remember how tall she was, how fair she was, I do not remember how she held my left hand as I tried to scribble down the English alphabets. I know it would have been great if I could write: "I remember how she held my hand and guided me as I struggled to jot down my 'b's, 'd's, 'p's and 'q's," But I do not remember. And that is what saddens me at times.

My father used to constantly remind me how she was the one who encouraged me to write with my left hand. I start writing from the wrong end of the copybook and constantly get the letters all mixed up . It sounds funny now but as a child, it must have been pretty confusing for me.

Until recently, I did not realize how important my left-handedness had become for me and my personality. However, now that I know the left brain-right brain phenomena, I must credit my creative inkling to my left hand, and my apparently active right brain! I do not know if Hema miss knew about this fact but I am completely indebted to the fact that she was there when I needed her the most, that is, when I was learning to pick up the pencil with my left hand.

So now when I am able to "completely awe" people out with my left hand skills, I remember her, and I miss her. She is no longer with us, she passed away when I had not even finished my third grade and back then,was not able to comprehend the great loss that her death was to me. I had lost my mentor, my best teacher.

Tolerance for My Ignorance by Khushbu Agrawal, Staff Writer and Blogs Editor

As I comfortably begin to write this little piece, I have a realization that I wouldn’t have been able to write this, had it not been for all these wonderful people who taught me how to do so. Beginning straight from someone who withstood my childhood tantrums and bravely taught me the alphabets and how to construct sentences – to someone in my college who taught me how to appreciate the arts and poetry, I have been blessed with great teachers. Teachers who have made me smile, teachers who made me laugh, teachers who made me cry and all those teachers who taught me the ways of life.

I take this opportunity to t hank each one of them, especially to the man who still remains a great source of inspiration for me- Mr Shakil Ahmed. He was not my ‘school’ teacher, but gave me home tuition for three years. Despite the exhaustion after long stressful hours at school, I would eagerly await those extra hours of learning with him, because those were my “happy hours,” the time when learning was sheer joy. His love for teaching didn’t preclude explaining the “why” of things. I was so full of questions, and he patiently addressed each of them. He saw each of us, his students, as individual thinking human beings who deserved to be listened to and heard, and not just vessels to be filled.

It wasn't just one subject that he  taught me, he was my English, Science, Accounts and Mathematics teacher, among others. He had a god-given gift of making the most obtuse subject matter understandable; so much so that under his guidance, Mathematics and Science became enjoyable and comprehensible subjects, rather than stressful ones. His teaching, however, was beyond the academics. He gave me important lessons in life, something that still remains with me.

I remember fondly, how he got for us a special omelet with extra toppings on one of those days. We could not tell him that we were vegetarians, and took it from him, promising that we would eat it once he left. We threw it out on the street the moment he left. To our embarrassment, he found out. He was probably hurt and felt insulted, but he did not tell us that; he did not make us feel terrible. He told us how we could have told him the truth, because being honest is better than trying to save face with deception. Respecting the culture of others is an important lesson he taught us that day, something I carry with me till today.

Under his guidance, I learnt so much more than I could have otherwise. He recognized my love for words, and brought me books from his personal library, which has only broadened my knowledge ever since I was a teenager. Over the years we have lost touch, but I remain grateful to him and would like to thank him for shaping me into who I am today.

You Call Them Teachers? by Rishi Amatya, Photo Story Editor

After the third time, Chamling sir snapped. “You piece of shit,” he barked. “Come here!”

Gingerly, the boy walked over to the teacher’s desk. His mathematics exercise book was spread open on the teacher’s desk, bleeding red ink all over the pages.

“See this?” said Chamling sir and slapped the boy. “One-two-zero makes hundred and twenty. The zero is the unit, two is the tens and one is the hundreds.”

He slapped the kid again. “You piece of shit. You can’t even get the basics right?” He dragged the boy by his ears now, threw him against the nearest bench and kicked him. Hard.

“What are your wasting your time for? Pack your bags.”  

The boy staggered, picked up his bags and made his way to the door, only to be greeted by another insult.

“Aren’t you the slowpoke!”

Chamling sir pulled the boy by his sideburns and then dragged him off to the staff room. 

It must have looked quite odd, at least from a distance. The boy tiptoed the entire way, his head bobbing to one side, eyes squinting in pain, as all the students peeped from their windows.      

I don’t remember much else of that incident. The wounds have long since healed, the humiliation forgotten. You might not call that an educational experience, and yet I managed to learn something important that day. I learned that I had to make smart choices in order to survive,  something that most students learn early on. Instead of getting beaten, I chose to copy someone else’s work and if possible, not have the teacher check it. Mostly, I preferred the latter.
              
That was when I was in the third grade. Things didn’t get much brighter as we climbed grades. Compared to the other grades, my fourth and fifth were the worst. I was enrolled in the school’s hostel and we had a sadistic warden who took pleasure in roughing us up. Only the pansies used a bamboo cane. No sir, they wouldn’t do for our warden. He had a special aluminum cane made for him. He whipped it around like a mad man, slashing as many as he could find. On days when he sported a bad temper, we bolted from his sight.      

Later, we’d hear stories with a sad face weeping in a corner. That was the one moment, those who were spared always detested. The feeling of being ‘safe for now’ had to be taken with a pinch of guilt. In those moments we all learned another valuable lesson. There’s no honor in bearing the brunt for your colleagues. You take it on your own, smile if you can and never, ever blame anyone for the horror that came after you. This loose code came about one day when one boy tried to block a swing aimed at his friend.

He lived.

Somewhere in his neatly combed hair still hides the stitch marks he got on that day.        

Of course, no one told anyone or complained to the other teachers, lest the others think the warden was going too soft. Not only that, the warden didn’t tolerate mutiny. He made sure it was properly ‘rewarded’.

This culture of inflicting punishment to ensure subordination routinely went overboard with such acts of violence that it would curdle the blood of any human rights activist. But it was the early 90’s, so it was fine. My guess is that the teachers were trying to outdo each other. When Sunitee miss had three third grade boys strip down and circumambulate the entire section, the hostel warden got together some of his best badmas students and led the army of naked boys marching outside the girls' hostel. There. Your turn now, Sunita.         

Two of those three never returned the next day. No one cared.

So when this topic (of how their school life was the best and how they had great teachers) crops up in conversation, I give them the blank stare. “Oh, really now?” I ask them. “Didn’t you get beaten once?” I want to say. I hold back, because of one certain incident. Once, at a party, a classmate who I had shared the third grade with was telling a group of college friends about his school days.

“They were fun,” he was saying. “I loved the English class. Rana miss loved me the most.” As he mouthed the words, he stole a glance and looked over at me. There was an almost pleading look in his eyes. “Don’t spoil it man,” his eyes were saying. I smiled and recounted how he was the apple of her eye.

Nope, he hadn't enjoyed English class, far from it. Nope, Rana miss didn’t love him the most. He was the most bullied student in the class. His thet Newari tones popped up every time he read or tried to read anything in English. Rana miss hated it so much that she occasionally thrashed him for what he could not change. Throughout the entire third grade, he carried her ‘love’ for him on his cheeks. Who would have known that love left its mark as an imprint of a slap?     

I couldn’t blame him for trying to balm his horrible memories with smooth talk and lies. You would have done the same, wouldn’t you?

(Names, of course, have been changed. As much as I’d like to name those bloody weasels, I cannot.)   

Perfect Backstitch by Sanjana Shrestha, Acting Managing Editor

Being an average student in high school means you will probably fall through the cracks of the education system. Teachers seem to either care about the ‘brilliant’ ones who make them look good or the ‘under average’ ones who make them look bad.

I was an average student with no flair for either maths or science and an unusual interest in ‘home science.’ I was happy going unnoticed and I had made my peace with my situation at school. Then, grade nine happened and I met Mrs. Shilpakar. She wore thick glasses and carried her pastel sarees with much grace. She was quietly assertive and never raised her voice to her students. And she taught us home science.

I liked her classes because I was not just caged in text book learning. I was making things, stitching, knitting and having fun. I always felt a great sense of satisfaction after I completed the sewing assignments, making baby shirts, baby pants and hats. I didn’t have a sewing machine at home so I had to hand stitch everything. Mrs. Shilpakar noticed my ‘backstitch’ and always appreciated how ‘almost machine-like they were’.

I didn’t want to disappoint the only teacher who seemed to notice me so I worked extra hard to get good grades in her class. I would always finish my assignments well before deadline and she would then assign me to help others with their work. In grade nine, I suddenly started feeling like I had something to offer even if it meant helping people with something as simple as cutting the fabric, getting the backstitch right, putting the thread through the eye of the needle and fixing thread spools on the sewing machines. However, as the class teacher, she was constantly worried about my grades in other subjects. After completing yet another sewing assignment, she casually mentioned to me, “What do you think will happen if you put the same effort and energy into everything you do, like you do with your back stitches?”

A few days back, I bumped into her at Jawalakhel. We were in the same safa tempo. I introduced myself and desperately hoped that she still remembered me. She did. She started talking about her new job as an administrator in the school. I had heard that the school management decided to give up home science for subjects with better prospects. She asked me what I had been up to? I told her about my work. Then we talked about how her two daughters were doing in life. She seemed so proud of them. Just before I got off the tempo, she told me she was happy that we had met after such a long time. I came home all giddy with excitement that Mrs. Shilpakar, who made my last two years in school the most memorable ones, still remembered me.