of praise became so powerful that you could be forgiven for feeling quite disconcerted by them at first.
I’d first met Rania at a barbeque given by a mutual acquaintance. It wasn’t long before all the kids were round her, like bees round a honeypot, while she played and fooled about with them as if she’d known them for years. I love to see people with a passion for their work. In Rania’s case this devotion was infectious. She came across as entirely genuine and earned real respect in return. ‘No’ meant ‘no’, a warning came first and then the explanation. Teachers who radiate charisma like this, who never use their greater knowledge to make excessive demands on others, who support each individual as much as possible in the class, have every right to be in school. In my time I have met plenty of trained educators who would have done better to stay away, both for their own good and those of others.
After the maths class the children had put together a shopping list for the supermarket. Those who couldn’t write ‘banana’ had drawn one instead. This went on for just under an hour. Aunt Maggie was stuck in a traffic jam. Due to an array of other appointments she’d cancelled her visit today. This meant the kids had the benefit of a longer break because the visit from on high would have occurred during their lesson time. Rania was convinced her pupils’ concentration was fading. Just a quick look at their written efforts on good nutrition had shown her that much.
We were sitting on a wall in the shade of a tumbledown house and looking across at the little educational establishment which brought so much. The charitable organisation had converted the front rooms into two teaching rooms. Beyond that was little more than nothingness, I thought to myself.
Because the street children were not allowed to sleep or eat here, there was something magical about this place Rania told me, something all those who came here tried to protect as they would precious treasure, most of all the children themselves. During the previous winter, when it was getting unbearably cold for the slum-dwellers in their miserable shacks towards the centre of this district, the kids themselves had set up their own night-watch to guard their tables and chairs. Otherwise it’d all have been snapped up for firewood. Perhaps the spell of this energetic desire to fight for knowledge came from the children’s will to do something for themselves and their own futures, in spite of all the odds. But it was probably because nobody had shown them once in their life how to value anything which did not bring in money.
But still she battled with herself and seemed unsure how to teach them about things you can’t see. It was only later at home, as I listened to the recordings I’d made of our conversation in order to get them down on paper, that I realised how her passion was tearing her apart.
While the little ones are going mad at play, testing to destruction the ball Rania had suggested I bring as a gift, the teenaged members of the class are busy keeping themselves apart from one another. Two boys are trying hard to get a borrowed frisbee to spin properly. The only three girls in the class are watching. They keep leaning close to one another to whisper and giggle in an engagingly daft way. Omar, a thirteen year old lad, who had been remarkably quiet during the lesson, is sitting to one side and reading a German story book he’d grandly presented me with the moment I had arrived.
‘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