My First Day at Madrasa

English teachers on the first day of school.

I teach at a madrasa.
BAM! I said it. MADRASA!
Now what does that mean?

Education in Indonesia lies at a fascinating entanglement of religion, politics, and nationalism. With all the room for overlap and conflict, if it were me in these students’ shoes I’d suffer an identity crisis. To try to get to the bottom of the Indonesian Problem one must wade through some murky issues related to education.

For now let me take you to my school; the place where the students wear ties and the teachers wear safari suits. Welcome to Madrasah Aliya Negari Lumajang, or God’s State Muslim School at Lumajang.

It’s 6:30 a.m. and I’m already sweating. I’m wearing a tie, on my bike, in the middle of traffic. Rickshaws and motorcycles cut me off in a weaving street boogie that is the Monday morning commute. I roll through the school gates ten minutes later, my ears still ringing from the car horns.

It’s the first day of school and anything could happen.

The power could go out. Maybe no one will show up. Classes could be cancelled because there’s a chance of rain. I might be thrown into a classroom with 50 students for two hours with no escape. There could be a carnival with monkeys on bicycles and honestly—yawn—seen it.

The teachers’ lounge is eerily quiet. Abandoned. I tuck in my shirt, tie my left shoe, and wait for a sign. “Good morning Mr. Mek!” A vice principal finds me and ushers me to the rear of the campus where the mosque is because, yes, our high school has its own mosque.

Back home the first day of a new school year means making introductions and going over the syllabus. Surprisingly that’s about what happened here, in an Indonesian sort of way.

Mr. Yhudi, one of the VPs, told me all 756 students were gathered at the mosque and I’m to introduce myself. OK, bring it! We ditch our shoes and wade through the crowd. Mr. Yhudi speaks first.

“This is Mr. Mek. He is your new English teacher from America. He lives on *blank* street near Al-Huda Mosque. He doesn’t like to eat rice. He’s twenty-four and not married. He’s not Muslim. And he’s not allowed to ride motorcycles. Since he’s a native speaker you will all speak English fluently very soon. Mr. Mek, come say something.” He’s beaming his pearly whites the whole time.

OK, I think, as I grab the mike. I steady myself in front of the 1,250 eyes peering up at me from either side of the partition; boys on one side, girls on the other. Really, Mr. Yhudi just saved me from the usual barrage of questions. As a bule, meeting new people in Indonesia unfailingly starts with answering the same set of questions: address, age, marital status, and the price of any visible electronics.

Answering these particularly blunt questions felt strange at first (why do these things matter?), then offensive (I’m more than demographic data!), then annoying (don’t you want to know me for who I really am?). By now I’ve almost accepted the no-nonsense interview. I used my time to tell the kids more about Peace Corps and that I expect them to do their homework!

The students spent the rest of their day in what I suppose were orientation talks sprinkled with breaks for prayer. I spent the rest of my day in the teachers’ lounge trying desperately to make sense of the schedule. We actually have three different bell schedules and ten class periods—all of it thrown out the window during Ramadan and many other random days. But I’m not judging.

Each of my next two posts examines a major theme at school. The Koran at School addresses the influence of Islam at my madrasa. And Neckerchiefs, Textbooks, and Flag Ceremonies or Nation-Building at School examines nationalism and nation-building at Indonesian schools.