I walk into the classroom.  I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of children present.  This is P2, or second grade (roughly).  There are probably at least 80 children crowded into a small room, with a few desks and a chalkboard at the front.  Their teacher looks exhausted.

 

I ask him what the children are learning in their English lessons.  He doesn't reply.  I ask again about their level, if they can read, etc. and he just shrugs.  He tells me he's not actually the teacher, he just takes attendance.  I ask where the teacher is.  He says they have no teacher.

 

I leave the room and enter the headmaster's office.  Where is the P2 teacher?  He says there is a problem.  I can only assume that those kids will be without a teacher for the remainder of the morning, if not the remainder of the week.

 

I contemplated trying to teach the class solo without a homeroom teacher, but the kids didn't understand enough English to make it worth their time.  We tried in vain for more than half an hour to get their attention.  I left feeling defeated.

 

Its situations like these when you're asked to plug a hole in a sinking boat for as long as you can, when the idea of futility washes over you.  What happens when we leave?  Is this really helping?  Like taking painkillers or just treating the symptoms, the critical problems are so often left undiagnosed.

 

What is necessary here?  How much of our system do we implement?  Do they really need what we can give?  It seems silly sometimes, but I feel as though the times when my presence has had the most meaning have been when I'm sitting on the stoop of some dusty African shop, holding a little boy or girl who might not have anyone else to hold him or her.  I'm not teaching, I'm not evangelizing, I'm not feeding, I'm not technically ministering to anyone.

 

I'm just holding a baby.