In an eventful sunny Sunday in September 2018, I showed up at an event at a certain place. Where? Just a place very familiar to me. None other than the school where I spent four years! The event was a discussion session to strengthen an amateur art club set up by students of the school. This club is just two years old and they are making paramount undertakings in promoting art in town. Named Debre Tibeb, literally meaning ‘A Mountain of Art’, the club has satisfied the founder, an Amharic teacher at the school, and all art lover teachers in town. Let me just take you to this main issue of my today’s scribbling.
Do you just aspire to read what I am going to write about my observation of the school now? No, I think you prefer to know what I remember of my days at the school. Lived experiences would attract you more, won’t they?
It was in September 2000 that I came from my home village to Debre Birhan town, 92 kilometers or just four hours’ drive from home. The coming attracts you more than the arrival. There were just trucks that transported goods and people to and from Sasit, my place that has a place in my heart as I spent my formative age there. The trucks, owned by a local fortune-teller, who has passed away a few years ago, were our sole means of transportation. The drivers had to play hide and seek with road traffic controllers that they transported us at nights. It was not my first ever drive to Debre Birhan town then. I had paid a visit to my uncles studying in town a year back.
A few days before coming to Debre Birhan, all my grade eight classmates and I went to Debre Sina on foot. It was 42 Kilometres which we walked at night. Our purpose? To fetch our grade eight national exam certificate. It was direct from there that we headed to Debre Birhan where we stayed for long begging for enrollment. The reason? The director said that we belonged to Debre Sina School than Debre Birhan. We explained to the authorities at the zonal administration and the school that there were no cars to transport us and our provision to Debre Sina town. The school in Debre Birhan, Hailemariam Mamo Senior Secondary School, even if it were found farther, was accessible by car from our place. Thanks to the fortune-teller who bought four cars to transport people and goods.
After a long time of begging and compliant we were allowed to enroll at the school except for Hailu Hailemariam and Tensay Weldehna, who were rejected. Hailu went to Debre Sina. Tensay left learning for good and headed back home to practice agriculture. If I met him by a sheer coincidence, I would ask him whose life brought satisfaction – mine or his.
We were 25 at grade eight. Among us a few completed grade 12. To name a few, Gizaw Hulumyikir, Wolde Girma, Hailu Negese, Gebriye Zenebe, Workagegnehu Zewdu and me. Grade nine would start. A totally new school system started. We were educated in the new educational and training policy that was being newly experimented on our seniors and us. Unlike the previous regime and policy, education was made in our mother-tounge, Amharic, throughout elementary school. Starting with grade nine, all subjects except Amharic were delivered in English. Some had to wonder how this language worked. Even if we took English as of grade one, many found it hard to understand or hold conversations in it.
Let me come to my story, sir/madam. I was a small boy of fourteen. How come? There was no kindergarten then. My father who liked to take ‘his children’ to school at a young age took me to the school at Sasit when I was only six. The school was nearby that I went and came back. Until grade four I almost knew nothing. This hugely affected my learning. How did my father take me to school at that tender age? He did that without taking my older half-brother to school. An evil deed! I paid the price and by having to shoulder education bigger than my level. I was fourteen at grade nine. Small and emaciated for that level that I was a laughing matter. And also a victim of bully that I had to experience bad encounters almost every day.
How did I live? I had two uncles who were also studying at the same school. We shared a room. I am thankful for them. How did we get food? The tracks would transport us provisions from home. This was for free and also I am thankful for them.
Grade nine passed as it may. ‘Bemote!’ I would die if I pass this grade without telling you some memories. There would emerge a group or pair of foreigners from any conspicuous corner and I would run to talk to them. This is a mentality that was in my mind then until I later left talking to strangers. Even those who were in upper grades than me called me to talk to the visitors. I tried and tried.
Memories of Grade ten follow. Under the new curriculum, we sat for national exam at grade ten. Some of us went to grade eleven, which led to university. Others headed to agricultural, teachers’ and technical colleges. There were also those who failed and had to stay at home and sit for the exam next year. Grade eleven and twelve were said to replace university first year that there was frustration and confusion among us. All this passed and we completed grade twelve.
While grade nine and ten was half day, grade eleven and twelve were full day. At this level, there were students from the entire North Shewa Zone, which consists of millions of people. I learned the reason for this last week while I was interviewing someone for an article on financing higher education. The schools these students came from were prohibited not to deliver lessons at grades eleven and twelve. People say that the government wanted to ‘avenge’ the Shewan elites who they say were their enemies they overthrew. For this dominant ignorance, thousands of students had to either come to the three centers found in Debre Birhan, Molale or Debre Sina or leave school altogether whether they had the pass mark or not. This happens at their tender age of sixteen.
Our School’s Current Condition
I was at the school half an hour before the meeting. At 2:00 pm I appeared at the majestic gate of Haile Mariam Mamo Preparatory School, as they call it at this time. Since it was Sunday, there were no students at the place. Only two young guards chatted there. Unlike the ones at our time, these were young and friendly. The ones at our time had a fierce look that intimidated any wrongdoer and an innocent one alike. They let me in. It was my fear of the guards that kept me away from my school for such a long while.
The administrative offices are to the left of the gate, the library to the right. At both wings of the entry, there stood the old statues of patriots, one of which may be of the hero the school is named after. When we were students there were two lines of old tid tree leading to the morning meeting place. Now they are decimated. On my way to the meeting place I saw the former workshop rooms. Metalwork, woodwork etc workshops are left after technic schools were opened instead. The place where the national anthem is hoisted is the center of the school. I sat there. What came across my mind follows in the next paragraph.
I remembered my classmates with all their deeds, features and bravado. The guys who came together from the farthest and remotest of places and accomplished goals unthinkable. How they kept victories in the battles of poverty and chills. This town that is famous for the chills is where the brave young hearts of Shewa were tried.
I reminisced of the exceptional teachers we had. A young teacher Berhe taught chemistry. How he was friendly is still lingering in my eyes. Later he won DV lottery and headed to the one and the only – the USA. Teacher Guesh, Zinabu, Talefe and a female teacher were also from chemistry. Many I remembered.
The incidences are also unforgettable. The hide and seek the guards played with boys who came jumping the school walls is worth mentioning. The big gourd threw rocks at boys jumping walls. The morning advices given by the director or his deputy were filled with narratives about Haile Mariam Mamo’s patriotic deeds. We were taught to emulate him. If you went astray, you would be reprimanded.
As I was alone at that spot, I felt really touched by the memory itself. What happened to those guys who had memories with me? No one can possibly tell about most of them. If they had a chance to meet on that day at that place, I think they would not be able to talk among themselves for a while. They would listen to themselves and calculate what they lost and profited from life after their school years.
Some of the students and teachers I knew died. I had to remember them and their deeds. Some are living abroad and most of the others in the different parts of Ethiopia.
After this long time of thinking, I resumed my visit. There were the 25 water barrels hanging on an old wooden structure. They were from the Italian times in the 1930s. Two new huge water containers have also been set in place. The graceful school has buildings that were built by Italians who occupied the country. The hall’s exterior and interior is still a work of beauty. There are also classrooms that are remnants of the old days.
Behind the school playground where we have fading memories, a new two storey building is under construction. I appreciate the school’s endeavors. All in all, the school is getting older and older. An idea struck my mind and I thought it better to renovate the old Italian buildings that are also treasures that remind us of the occupation and its history.
The three emperors:
Before I depart I should tell you that the pictures of the three Ethiopian emperors are drawn in the school. This happened when I was in grade 10. The pictures are still there and I should thank the people behind the idea because reconciling the historical narratives behind Emperors Minelik, Tewodrs and Yohannes is a great idea. Reconciliation comes this way!
ምንም አስተያየቶች የሉም:
አስተያየት ይለጥፉ