Over the past few months I have been a witness to approximately 1000
young Prishtinase going through this process, applying for places in
the six clubs which have run in local schools. I have been
co-ordinating a voluntary project where native English speakers
(American, Canadian, Australian, British) who are in Kosovo because of
their own or their partners' work are trained as leaders of these
after-school clubs For the ex-pats it's a chance to get out of the
office, out of the house, out of what one volunteer called the
'international bubble', and meet some of the younger citizens of the
youngest country in Europe; for the kids it's a chance to practise
their English with a native speaker. Competition for the places has
been high - in one school, 180 applications for the 14 places. And the
success of the project has also been exciting, thanks to support from
committed school directors and the enthusiasm and energy of the
volunteers - and, of course, the exhaustingly eager children. Schools
want the project to be repeated, children wept at their 'graduation'
ceremonies at the end of term, and volunteers are asking when a new
season of clubs can start, keen for more of what they have called 'a
new perspective' on Kosovo.
Being in the background of the project, the new perspective I myself have had on Kosovo through this work has come from reading the submitted application forms. They're a fascinating glimpse of the mindset of the capital's fifth-graders. Of course, you mustn't draw conclusions beyond the facts, but when the answer to the question 'what do you expect to get from the club' is routinely 'a certificate', 'a diploma', 'a letter of recognition', 'praise', 'a prize' or even, very specifically 'some colouring pencils,' you can start to feel cynical about Kosovo's current learning culture. The student who instead said 'more erudition and hope', the respondent looking for 'new cognitions' (credit to him for deciding to answer in English when given the option) or his counterpart who hoped only for 'a better future' really stood out. And wouldn't you give a place to the child who said she was asking for only 'what I deserve.'
Even more interesting to me was the repeated pattern of responses to the question 'why should we choose you to have a place in the club instead of choosing any of the other students?' Reading through the majority of answers, I was staggered by the apparent discomfort shown around the implied elitism of the question. Repeatedly, the answer was 'it's your decision', 'I'm not the one who has to decide - it's for you to choose', 'you should choose me but you should choose the other students as well', 'everyone deserves it (but i've shown an interest in it)', 'you have to go with your opinion on who to choose. I wish that everyone could take part', 'I don't know - you could choose my friend.' On the one hand, there is a a charming modesty and collegiality about this pattern of responses. With eleven years of experience teaching in the British school system, I know that our thrusting, individualistic school culture has something to learn from Kosovo. But teaching is, among other things, also a process of fitting pupils for their life beyond school and beyond childhood. For Kosovo's (and indeed Britain's) current 10 year olds that means a world of shrinking opportunities for employment, a world where only a well-filled application form will secure a well-paid job. Or does the legendary perception of corruption and nepotism in Kosovo (a perception which is far more damaging than the corruption itself) mean that Kosovo's ten year olds don't believe in the application form as the passport to opportunity? Is that the reason for these children's reticence?
Of course not all the respondents were so even-handed or self-effacing when asked this question. One wrote in Albanian, 'it's my dream to be registered on an English course but my parents aren't able to pay. Please choose me.' At the end of the sentence she added, in English and in capitals, 'PLEASE.' Another girl was clear about her qualifications for becoming a member of the club. 'You should choose me because I'm clever and pretty.' Did we choose them? Would you have done?
Being in the background of the project, the new perspective I myself have had on Kosovo through this work has come from reading the submitted application forms. They're a fascinating glimpse of the mindset of the capital's fifth-graders. Of course, you mustn't draw conclusions beyond the facts, but when the answer to the question 'what do you expect to get from the club' is routinely 'a certificate', 'a diploma', 'a letter of recognition', 'praise', 'a prize' or even, very specifically 'some colouring pencils,' you can start to feel cynical about Kosovo's current learning culture. The student who instead said 'more erudition and hope', the respondent looking for 'new cognitions' (credit to him for deciding to answer in English when given the option) or his counterpart who hoped only for 'a better future' really stood out. And wouldn't you give a place to the child who said she was asking for only 'what I deserve.'
Even more interesting to me was the repeated pattern of responses to the question 'why should we choose you to have a place in the club instead of choosing any of the other students?' Reading through the majority of answers, I was staggered by the apparent discomfort shown around the implied elitism of the question. Repeatedly, the answer was 'it's your decision', 'I'm not the one who has to decide - it's for you to choose', 'you should choose me but you should choose the other students as well', 'everyone deserves it (but i've shown an interest in it)', 'you have to go with your opinion on who to choose. I wish that everyone could take part', 'I don't know - you could choose my friend.' On the one hand, there is a a charming modesty and collegiality about this pattern of responses. With eleven years of experience teaching in the British school system, I know that our thrusting, individualistic school culture has something to learn from Kosovo. But teaching is, among other things, also a process of fitting pupils for their life beyond school and beyond childhood. For Kosovo's (and indeed Britain's) current 10 year olds that means a world of shrinking opportunities for employment, a world where only a well-filled application form will secure a well-paid job. Or does the legendary perception of corruption and nepotism in Kosovo (a perception which is far more damaging than the corruption itself) mean that Kosovo's ten year olds don't believe in the application form as the passport to opportunity? Is that the reason for these children's reticence?
Of course not all the respondents were so even-handed or self-effacing when asked this question. One wrote in Albanian, 'it's my dream to be registered on an English course but my parents aren't able to pay. Please choose me.' At the end of the sentence she added, in English and in capitals, 'PLEASE.' Another girl was clear about her qualifications for becoming a member of the club. 'You should choose me because I'm clever and pretty.' Did we choose them? Would you have done?
The author can be reached at elizabethgowing at hotmail dot com.
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