My grievances grew daily, each more frustrating than the last. Just how was I supposed to teach anything here? The students were jammed together, three to a bench, a total of roughly 80 in a room built for 50. No one could walk from the front of the classroom to the back because the aisles had disappeared. The ceiling fan didn’t work. It was so hot. Students opened the windows, only to receive a noisy blast of dust and dirt every few minutes as delivery trucks, ambulances and random vehicles rumbled by three meters away en route to the hospital.
The myriad of bright, shining faces, all in their places, watched as I measured and mixed ORS (oral rehydration solution) in a pop bottle. These household ingredients – sugar, salt and water – could save the life of a dehydrated child, I explained loudly. I held up a poster, and passed it around. Two volunteers within easy reach came up and repeated the demonstration. Everyone earnestly took notes, their pencils pressing down hard on their scribblers. The students were so eager to learn and, unlike me, took the classroom conditions in stride. I wanted to use active teaching-learning methods with student participation, not just give lectures at full volume. I pressed on, fatigued by the end of each class, disappointed and convinced that nobody was learning anything. Until one day, the importance of doing what was possible dawned on me. I could aim high but my expectations of myself needed to match the immediate circumstances – expectations that would allow me to carry on and do my best each day, knowing that that is the most that we can ask of anyone, including me. Besides, the terrible classroom conditions couldn’t last forever. And they didn’t.
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April 2021
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