Gamru: Take Two

After another week at Gamru, I feel like I finally understand my kids, like I finally know how to get through to them, to keep them engaged, to teach them something.
Of course, I only have one day left.
This week was equally as crazy as the first. On Monday, the power was out all day and the schedule was confused by a visit from the local rotary, so I ended up trying to teach first graders outside on the playground for an hour. The whole teaching thing failed miserably, of course, so we ended up playing some sort of game in which we all hold hands and spin in a circle, then let go and run around screaming. But I think I've gotten some sort of hang of the chaos. Teaching is no less hard. But I actually left the school a few days this week feeling energized rather than exhausted. There were more moments of total engagement, more instants where I could see both joy and understanding in their eyes. And I appreciated the love of the kids more. Though the chorus of "ma'am"s  is headache inducing, I'm touched by their eagerness to participate. We taught them to high five and pound, and I'm starting to think it's adorable rather than obnoxious when they always want to give me both plus a handshake at the end of the day. Salin, a small first grader who refuses to participate in any sort of writing, sprinted away from his friends to walk home with me the other day, not saying a word but beaming incessantly.
It's hard to know if they remember much of what I've taught in the past few weeks- my review with second grade was extremely successful, but the first and third graders seem to only know one of the emotions I taught- "I am mad!"- which is accompanied by an angry face and the hands on the hips. They find it hysterical and love to stand up in the middle of class, yelling "I am mad!". I think I've moved past my frustration at being unable to impart knowledge, though, and seen the importance of just being an interested, persistent, energized figure in their classrooms. Gamru is crowded and dirty, the teachers are overworked, there aren't enough supplies, the kids are poor. Today we visited a private Indian school and the contrast was flooring. Gamru looks like a chaotic closet in comparison. But to be able to give my time and my smiling face to such a place- even if the students forget all their new vocab words- feels important. The students have at least learned that people, even white people, care about them and are willing to spend time with them. Perhaps, in the end, that really is more important than their English skills.

Zomkiy

Each morning, we attend a lecture given by a local Tibetan- usually working for an NGO or similar organization- and hear about the historical and current situation of Tibet and her refugees. But at night, we go to Gu Chu Sum, and program that provides housing and education for ex political prisoners, and have "conversation class" for an hour. I've spent an hour each night of the trip with Zomkiy, who is a Buddhist nun. She is wonderful. She's small, aging, and I have fallen in love with her.
Like all escaped Tibetans, she has had some harrowing experiences. Zomkiy absolutely loves to talk (I spend most of our conversations just listening) and has told me the story of her life.
One day, she asked me to tell my story. At 20 (newly!), I was totally stumped. I told her about my brother, about growing up in the mountains, about how much I love college. It took me maybe five minutes. But over the course of two weeks, I've pieced hers together- for Tibetans, it is not unique. But for me, it is stunning.
Zomkiy's parents were farmers in a small village. As the oldest of nine children, she quit school after 7th grade to help on the farm and take care of her youngest siblings. The work was hard, and she had to carry a baby brother around on her back as she worked. At 18  (I think), she joined a nunnery. I'm unsure of the year she joined, but in 1989, she participated in a massive political protest with some other nuns. She was arrested. She shudders when she talks about Chinese police, remembering "many many beat". The first two words I teach her are "bruise" and "swollen". She spent three years in prison, surviving on one piece of bread a day for much of the time and living in a concrete cell with a bucket for a bathroom. Her family was allowed to visit, but not very often and only for five minutes at a time. After being released, she, like all other escaped Tibetans, walked (or rather climbed, through the snow) across the Himalayas to Nepal. It seems that this experience was worse than prison for her. "Very very difficult", she always says as she remembers 20 days of non-stop walking, carrying heavy bags of tsampa and sleeping little in bitter cold conditions. Though reluctant, she took the two young nephews of a brother's friend across with her. The boys hardly made it it seems, there was "many many crying" and the occasional need to carry their bags or even the boys themselves. After reaching Tibet, her group was stopped and robbed by Nepali police. Eventually, though, she made it to a reception center in Kathmandu, which sent her to India, where she has been in a nunnery for the last 17 years. She spent time at Gu Chu Sum last year learning English, and is back to keep improving upon it. Currently, she's waiting on a doctor's approval to move to Australia, where she wants to work and keep studying Buddhist philosophy- but she worries a lot about the move. I honestly don't know if she will be approved- she has some recurring pain and lasting injuries from being beaten by the police, and seems a bit frail to me.
Her story is horribly sad. She often shakes her head, looking at the ground, as she talks. The best way she knows how to convey her struggles is by saying "very very difficult" over and over. But the best thing about Zomkiy is her spirit. Her sense of humor shines through every terrible tale. She laughs about the challenge of carrying babies as such a small person, and tells me I must have good karma for being born so tall. She laughs about how she used to try to save one half of her piece of bread in prison for eating later, but would always forget and gobble it up too early. She laughs about being horrified by the bucket bathroom situation in prison. Her stories are incredibly endearing- accidentally ordering beer on her first airplane flight, trying to convince her brother that the used and cleaned-up shoes she bought him were in fact new, complaining about her wrinkles but being thrilled when I told her we call them laugh lines. Despite the magnitude of her tragedy, I find myself overwhelmed by her spunk, not her sadness. Every night I leave her room energized and alive, blabbing to friends about everything she told me. It is easy to see an ex-political prisoner from Tibet as just a tragic story- but Zomkiy's personality- her squinty smile, her long laugh, the way she slaps my knee as we giggle together- is what sticks with me.

Friday is Friday is Friday

I spend my afternoons here teaching English at Gamru village school, a charity school for Indian children. It is free- the uniforms, food, and books are covered- so the children are predominantly poor. The building is unimaginably small, as are their pencils, but these students are getting a chance they otherwise wouldn't. Here's a link to their website: http://gamruschool.com/gamru/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=12&Itemid=27
McLeod Ganj is full of NGOs and other organizations that serve Tibetans, and all of the other students in my group work primarily in this realm. So I'm finding it satisfying to work with Indians- not because Tibetans don't need help, but because around here, they get a lot of attention and school-less Indian children are easy not to see.
I've never done anything so hard, though.
Sitting down in front of the twelve or so trustees and board members of the Boettcher Foundation for my scholarship interview is usually the experience that comes to mind when I think of being scared shitless. But there's nothing like standing in front of a room of expectant seven year olds whose language you don't speak. I have no idea how to teach first graders, teach English, or teach English to first graders. Or second graders. Or third graders. While the principal and a few of the teachers at Gamru are wonderfully supportive, we have zero direction. All my questions are answered with a head wiggle (somewhere between yes and no) and a yes, yes, do whatever you like. The students, as we have discovered, know a lot of simple vocab words- things like colors, shapes, days of the week, animals, etc. But they can't form sentences, and they have no idea what I'm saying to them.  It's hard to do engaging games and activities because I can't explain the rules or give directions. Everything turns into actions and repeat after me. The first few days are the worst. I feel sort of helpless, like I'm not really teaching them anything. And some of the teachers seem to agree. I feel that they don't really want me there, that I'm wasting time and letting them color all too often.(They LOVE coloring. And it keeps them quiet and busy. Win.)
The first few days were really tough. I dreaded going. I hate being unable to make them understand- and hate even more running out of things to do and watching them get bored. But on Thursday, after a sort of shaky lesson in times of the day, a second grader raises his hand. The day  before I had taught emotions, complete with silly faces that the kids eat up. I call on the student, and he stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and says, "I am mad"- squinty eyebrows and everything. It is exactly as I taught him. And I almost want to cry. He remembers! The second graders prove themselves again on Friday, remembering the times of day. Friday is the first day I feel a little good about teaching- I'm getting the hang of this, at least a few of them are retaining knowledge, I'm less intimidated by the blank stares of first graders.
But Friday is Friday, and will always be Friday. The end of the week has a mystical effect on student energy and emotion, and I have two crying third graders at the end of the day. But it is almost comforting, in a grounding sort of way, to be reminded that these are just kids after all- the same as kids anywhere.