Business & Economic Research Center | Jones College of Business | Middle Tennessee State University

by Steven Sibley (October 24, 2008)

 

This is out of order from the update concerning last week's village trip, but I got home and had to write about this experience while it was fresh in my mind:

Kathryn's original intent for coming to Bangladesh and interning with Grameen was to learn about the education work that Grameen was doing. As her trip is nearing an end, and we have only visited two schools (neither of which were affiliated with Grameen), Kathryn had asked Babor if we could visit on of the "slum schools" that Grameen operates through its sister company, Grameen Shikkha.

Grameen Shikkha helps provide education for needy Bangladeshis by managing scholarships and funding schools for children who could and would not otherwise go to school. In total, there are 20 slum schools throughout the especially poor Mirpur 10, 11, and 12 districts of Dhaka, each school with 20-25 students. The schools' primary purpose is to provide poor, often working, students with basic literacy and social skills necessary for them to secure better employment, or if they are lucky, to continue with education beyond Class 5 (the equivalent of grade 5 in the American education system).

On Tuesday, Babor, Kathryn, and I visit a slum school in Mirpur-10.

Entering the classroom, Kathryn and I are overwhelmed with a huge "Good morning! How are you?" from a sea of smiling children. They are very happy to receive us and show off their basic spoken English. Kathryn and I respond with an equally enthusiastic, "Good morning!" Lacking desks, the children are seated on the floor, and Babor invites us to sit with them. Kathryn and I introduce ourselves.

"Aamar naam, Steve. Ami shikkha eshechi," I say, informing them, "My name is Steve. I am a student." The children are thrilled by the little amount of Bangla that I have learned. Kathryn says, "Well, I can't top that. My name is Kathryn. I'm from California." Babor translates what she has said and goes on to tell them that we are both students from America studying with Grameen Bank.

Then, Babor asks the students to introduce themselves by saying their name, how old they are, what class they are reading, and where they are from. The first student says, "My name is Laaki. I am 10 years old. I am reading class three. I am from Dhaka, Mirpur-10." After Laaki completes her introduction, everyone in the class claps. In turn, each student follows the protocol, some struggling and requiring help from the teacher, while others are either more advanced or more well-rehearsed. With the exception of one 12-year-old student, everyone is 10 or 11 years old, reading class three, from Dhaka Mirpur-10.

After the introductions, the teacher asks the students to stand up, and the whole class sings a song for us, complete with hand and body motions. Babor tells us that the song is about rowing a boat, although the song's subject was quite obvious from the students' gestures. After the song is finished, we clap, and a little girl bashfully stands up. She begins to sing a solo song but is overwhelmed with shyness and quickly sits back down. The class claps for her. Next, another little girl gets up and does a dance for us while the whole class sings a song and claps in time. At the song's conclusion, she sits down as she receives her applause.

Throughout the performances of songs and dances, I can't help but reminisce about my own time in elementary school. I think that their song about rowing the boat is not unlike "Row, row your boat." While the songs may be similar, the conditions of their school bear no resemblance to those of my youth. We had chairs and desks and textbooks and blackboards. They have a floor and some notebooks.

After they have finished their performances, Babor jokingly suggests that Kathryn and I should sing a song for them. Kathryn and I laugh and say that we don't remember any songs. Babor says, "That is ok. Maybe now we can ask them questions." Babor immediately addresses the 12-year-old, Sultan.

Babor tells us, "I ask him how he is doing in the class. He say he is testing fifth."

Kathryn asks, "Fifth highest in the class."

And Babor says, "Yes, and now I will ask him why he is the oldest in the class but is not testing higher." After a brief dialogue, Babor tells us, "He say that he needs to read more books, but he is working too much." Babor says, "I ask him what job he does, and he sews jewelry onto garments."

Confused, Kathryn asks him what he means. Babor points to a little girl who has sequins sewn onto her garment and asks her to come closer so that we can ser her clothes, which are intricately designed with glitter and sequins. Babor says, "Sultan, he makes these things," pointing to the sequins and the glitter.

Kathryn asks, "How many hours per day does he work?" Babor replies, "Okay, I will ask him."

"He goes to school from 8 a.m. until 11 a.m., and then he works from 11:30 until sometimes 4 or 5 o' clock in the afternoon or sometimes later," Babor tells us. "It depends on the day." Inferring from the name of Grameen's "slum school" project, I had expected that the children would be very poor and that the classroom would be inferior to those of my youth, but I am amazed that a 12-year-old boy works at minimum 24 hours per week.

Babor says, "Now I ask him what he will want to be when he is an adult." After a prolonged exchange between Babor and Sultan, Babor says, "He says he will like to be an engineer or architect when he grows up. So I try to motivate him to be a better student. I tell him that he needs to study harder and read more books."

Sultan does not look motivated. Locking eyes with Sultan, I see that he seems to accept that he will not be able to realize his dream. The economic circumstances that require him to work at least five hours per day as a 12-year-old will likely force him to get a job in a garment factory when he turns 14. I have to hold back my tears. All I can offer Sultan is an empathetic and hopeful smile.

Babor asks us if we have other questions. Kathryn asks, "Can we go around the room and ask all of them what they want to be when they grow up?"

"Yes, I will ask them." Babor begins with the little girl named Laaki "She wants to be a doctor." Continuing around the classroom, Babor asks the question of each student. Teacher, doctor, and R.A.B. (Rapid Action Battle, a police and army special forces division) are common responses. Several boys reply that they want to be in the Navy or the Air Force.

As Babor progresses through the students, one volunteers that he tested at the top of the class. Babor asks who has tested second, and the girl sitting to his right raises her hand. Babor congratulates them on their success and motivates the others to study harder. After this brief interruption, the students continue sharing their ideal jobs with us. An adorable little girl with a gigantic smile, also named Laaki, says that she wants to be like their teacher and teach poor children.

The hopes and dreams of these children, much like their songs and dances, mirror those of the classmates of my youth. I am saddened by the overwhelming odds stacked against them. Yet, considering the minute amount of money their labor contributes to their family's monthly income, I also think it is a shame that so little truly stands in their way.

Babor finishes asking the students what they would like to be and asks Kathryn and me, "Any more questions?" I ask Babor if we can briefly speak to the student who has tested at the top of the class.

The student's name is Mohammed Azrul. His father is a rickshaw driver, and his mother is a maid. Mohammed helps his mother with her maid business and helps maintain the family's household. His father is a rickshaw driver, and his older sister, aged 14, works in a garment factory. Mohammed's father makes 150 to 200 taka per day, his mother makes 1,400 taka per month for cleaning three households, and his sister makes 100 taka per day. The fact that Mohammed has such an in-depth knowledge of his family's financial situation makes me realize how dire their condition is. As a 10-year-old, I never knew nor concerned myself with how much money my father made.

Babor asks the same questions of the girl who tested second highest. Her father is a day laborer while her mother "makes garbage." Making garbage involves sorting through the trash to find pieces of recyclable material that can be sold to businesses that resell them to be re-fabricated. The girl herself works at "making designs" on garments.

At the conclusion of this questioning, Babor asks, "Any more questions?" Kathryn asks, "Can you go around the room and ask the students what they do for work?" Babor replies, "It is okay. I will ask them."

Many of the students, especially the girls, make designs on garments. One little boy, Islam, who wants to be a teacher, says that he works at a garage as a taxi-repair assistant. Another boy, Kobe, who wants to be in the Navy, works in a hotel. I amazed that such little children with such bright smiles and big dreams must perform such difficult labor. I struggle to hold back the tears.

"Any more questions?"

Kathryn and I say no. Babor thanks the students for answering our questions. He goes on to encourage them to study hard and read more books. He asks the students if they have any questions for us. They ask Kathryn and me to sing a song for them.

Looking at Kathryn, I realize that we must sing a song for these children. Kathryn, too, knows this. She says, "We have to sing something that has hand or body motions."

"I'm a Little Teapot?" I reply.

"Yeah, that's a good one."

"How does that go again? I haven't sung that in 20 years."

After a quick refresher, Kathryn and I stand up in front of the classroom. "One, two, three. I'm a little teapot, short and stout. This is my handle; this is my spout. When I get all steamed up, then I shout. Tip me over and pour me out." The children love it. They clap and laugh at us to no end.

After we sit back down, I pull my camera out to get ready to take pictures, while Babor addresses the class in Bengali. As some of the children become aware of the camera, they begin to make faces. Kathryn notices this and begins making faces back at them. They start laughing. I join in, making my own funny faces. Soon, the class is paying no attention to Babor, distracted by the face making. Hilarity ensues. The children are laughing; I'm laughing. The children try to recreate the faces that we are making, and the director of the slum school system gets a little upset at them. I felt a little bad for getting the children in trouble.

Then comes the picture taking. The class poses with me and then with Kathryn. Then Kathryn and I take pictures of individuals and groups of students. Some children try to push others out of the way to be at the center of the pictures. A few are a bit camera shy. After each photo, we show our pictures to the children, and they are thrilled, asking for more pictures to be taken. They start fighting over the photographers, saying "Me now." It is hard for us and for the children to say goodbye.

After we wave goodbye, all of the children follow us outside. The teacher of the class walks with us and tells Babor that she owns a hair salon that earns $1,500 U.S. per month. With that much money coming in from her business, it is clear that she teaches not for the salary. Most of her salary she spends on school supplies and books to read to the children. When Babor tells us this, Kathryn says, "Ooh, I need a haircut."

We go to the teacher's salon, and she gives Kathryn a haircut. Babor and I wait in the lobby. Babor tells me how expensive it is to get a haircut at a salon in Dhaka. He says, "My wife wanted to go to salon to get haircut for Eid Day. I tell her, 'You need no haircut. I like your hair like that.' That way I don't have to pay the money."

Kathryn comes out with bangs and gives me a telling look, clearly regretful that she asked for a haircut. She thanks the teacher, says she really like the cut, and offers to pay for it, but the teacher refuses. We say our goodbyes and walk outside. As Babor goes to hail us a CNG, I tell Kathryn how grateful I am that she asked to go see a slum school.

Kathryn says, "Yeah, I know. Those kids are so cute. It has been a great morning. That is why I came to Bangladesh."

More information on Grameen Shikkha's slum children