One teacher had begun a conversation about the school environment during one of the first sessions. Another teacher had alluded to his hopes and dreams. He sketched motorable roads and electrical poles around his house. Later that day, I noticed the same teachers sawing off wooden beams, in order to install solar panels at the school. The micro hydroelectric plant constructed a few years earlier had supplied electricity to Ghyachchok and five other villages in the area, but the earthquake had destroyed the plant, rendering the settlement without power since April 25.
The faces of the teachers, especially the men, were heavy with the burden of responsibility, and they barely spoke. Yet, inside the makeshift classroom, I noticed instances of joy during the art-making process. There was an almost tangible sense of collective relief at the opportunity to be in a space where they could, for a while, just sketch, draw and play with colour.
One of the art therapy teams in Kosovo gave flour, salt, oil and water to teachers, and asked them to play with the materials and create something. Kalmanowitz and Lloyd wrote: “They seemed to be finding that creative space where the human spirit can find joy in an immediate, instinctive response to a ball of flour, salt, oil, and water.”
Returning to life
For three days and nights, the Ghyachchok compound came to life with colour and music. Shades of red and yellow, green and blue mingled with joyful sounds and movements. Hula hoops and balls were thrown around, stories read and created, Kathak and traditional dances performed.
As an educator, I tried to strike a balance between planning and responding, between controlling and letting go. I had brought picture books and sketched a general plan to work with teachers and primary grade students, leaving enough room in the plans for modification if surprises arose. After the first session, I conducted another session with teachers on literacy, explaining the idea of difficulty of texts and the importance of matching children to the right books.
A few of the teachers supervised primary-grade children as they read stories and looked at the pictures. My hope was that the stories and pictures would inspire a few, or at least help them relax. But they soon got restless and scattered throughout the school compound, disturbing the movement workshops that Circus Kathmandu were conducting with the older students.
On the morning of the third day, a plan had to be devised. Older students were matched with younger ones, forming smaller groups of twos and threes. I asked the older students to read to the younger ones. “Explain the stories,” I requested. “Ask questions. Just spend some time together.” This kind of partnership, regularly practiced in the New York City public schools in which I had worked, is known to promote organic interaction with books and engage students in a meaningful way. Always eager for novel experiences, students respond well and look forward to peer reading. I was glad to note that the Ghyachchok students also enjoyed this experience. In fact, some of the older students stayed after school, searching through the pile of books and poring over them.
On our final evening in Ghyachchok, we had several memorable conversations with the teachers. After the storytelling performance, some members of our team danced on stage with students and village elders. Clouds moved slowly over the hills and two distant waterfalls. Jess, Sharareh and I talked to three local teachers. Several conversations were taking place. One of the teachers said that she had been trying to read but could not remember anything. Jess reassured the teachers that there was no one right way of reacting to traumatic experiences. Disorientation, loss of memory, exhaustion and confusion can be considered normal reactions to an abnormal situation. Later, the teacher revealed how she had left her four-year-old son in Kathmandu with her mother-in-law the day before the earthquake. “Babu wants to come back to Ghyachchok,” she muttered, on the verge of tears, “But I don’t know what I will do with him here.”
Another teacher, Sangeeta Gurung, was calmer. She summarised her life story in a few minutes: how she had moved to the village with her husband about a decade earlier, at a time when there was no electricity or regular water supply. “Every woman in this village has contributed to bringing water and electricity here,” she told me. She spoke in a measured tone, her composure a sign of her emotional maturity and intelligence. But sadness and dejection bubbled under the surface. “We have worked so hard to develop this village, sir, and we were doing so well. But now, this happened.” She paused, momentarily at a loss for words. Several times, Jess and I had emphasised the importance of staying in the present, of not thinking too much about the past or the future, and how necessary it was to keep going. I didn’t feel like repeating this again. Another teacher began recounting how she had been partially buried. If she hadn’t managed to stick her hand out of the rubble, she may not have survived.
It was clear that the teachers had a lot to share. Listening to them felt like the only thing I could do.
Taking the project forward
Back in Kathmandu, Sharareh and I sat down with Kumudini. We shared photos and talked about what had worked and what needed improving in the ArtWorks programme. Two things were clear: the primary-level students needed more supervisors, and the teachers needed further sessions. How could we take this project forward? Kumudini urged us to consider taking ArtWorks across Nepal, not just to the districts affected by the quakes. Her brothers had struggled with maths and science at school. Artistically inclined from a young age, both now had successful careers, one in film and the other in fashion. If it hadn’t been for art, they could have struggled to find their way in life. “If you can just light a few sparks with this programme,” said Kumudini, “If you can show some of these students that there is a whole other world for them, we will consider our job done.”
I knew exactly what Kumudini meant. I had also been weak in maths and science. Had it not been for friends who passed novels around in boarding school, I may never have discovered reading and my curiosity might never have been stoked. I would not have known about the worlds that existed beyond my own. If it hadn’t been for books, my various desires – to learn about these worlds, to meet people who lived in them, to understand their different ways of thinking and being – would not have been fulfilled.
I have always understood the value of literature and the art of writing, but this trip compelled me to think more deeply about our time at Ghyachchok, about the trip, which was a sort of an experiment. How effective had the programme been? Would it make sense to go all over Nepal, or just to a few villages multiple times? Should the focus be on visual and performing arts, on more innovative ways of creating and making, or should language arts be given equal weight? The quake had brought the artists and volunteers together, compelling us to take this journey. We had decided to leave our comfort zones for a few days and embark on an adventure. I had devoted hours to working with teachers and students, relished the company, and had ignored the bug bites around my ankles.
So what? What did we really accomplish? What did we leave behind? Kumudini mentioned sparks. That is good enough. But it is also important to think about ways of integrating the arts into the school system, in a realistic and sustainable way. The government curriculum is heavily dominated by obscure texts, disconnected from students’ immediate lives, taught in an old-fashioned way. Rote learning is emphasised, so that students memorise answers to questions for an end-of-year exam. Visual and performing arts are given little attention.
An education without a rigorous arts component is like raising a child inside a walled compound. An arts-based curriculum brings out human diversity, valuing multiple intelligences, enabling students to appreciate each other’s talents and personalities. Educator Paulo Friere wrote that art can help people develop a new awareness of self. Maxine Greene has written about how art can release one’s imagination. Art also breaks internal barriers, those created by the mind and emotions.
Bravo! Very well said. Art works – it gives us culture. It is what makes us a civilized society.