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Humanising Language Teaching
Year 4; Issue 6; November 02

Short Article

A Teacher and her Sorrow

by Cecile Marit, Teacher of Dutch, IEPSCF, Uccle, Belgium

May 2001

I am starting a new course which will last two months. A new group of beginners.
Fine weather is forecast. Sun. Feels good and I am full of enthusiasm. I really like beginners: I feel it's a privilege to have them discover something which seems , even if it is an illusion, to form a "whole" which would make the masters of the world turn pale. I have the privilege of watching them start from almost nothing and end up with "such a lot".

Shall I introduce them to you: Miriam and Jacob, Arabic speakers.
Johan, Christel, Kelly, Leen, Lisa, Mira, Blanca, Bertha, Africans from deepest black Africa, not the Africa of tourist brochures. All of them pretty much political refugees.
Dora, from Central America, speaks Spanish
Bart, Rony, Peter, Rudy, Frank Tony…. Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc… Countries where life isn't easy at the moment and so distant from us… from me.
Sander, Tommy, Nadia, Linda, Jack, Helena, Tina…..they are all more or less from Belgium*, or not that Belgian. Educated or not that educated, here in Belgium, in any case

June 2001

Some Thoughts

- One never knows anything for always. I am searching, and I try to centre my search on listening to the other. I am searching and I am groping. In the dark and in solitude.

  • What is listening? And who is this other who is so other?
    These people in front of me, these are human beings, who, as a result of having been without the right to speak for so long, are, today, unable to listen. And thus they are unable to learn.
    These are people who, as a result of so much repression, today experience only delirium. And thus, no discipline or rigour.
    These are people who, having lived such total cutting off, such total departures, today do not dare to cast anchor anywhere. And thus, nor real desire for language.
    These are people, who, as a result of having lost so many friends, speak over and over again to themselves in an unseen monologue. And thus no real wish for the other. No communication

  • And language, what is it, then? A tongue that I attempt to teach you ( to say? to love? to live?). Because it is in my heart. And because you are here in my home place. And welcome. This tongue which is mine and which is my heart and my culture is a language which for you has no meaning. Yet this tongue tells a tale, a whole history of revolts and acceptances, of loves and loves falling away, of relationships and secrets…….There are kinds of music, tears and laughter, cries and things unsaid, in my language. Going back centuries……
    And for you, mine is not a language. And thus there is no language between us.
    I do not know if you are speaking to me in the intimate or the polite form, (in the singular or the plural), if you expect an answer to a question you have not asked me. I don't know if your "yes" is really yes. I do not understand you and do not know which of us is lacking, nor how to build this bridge between you and me.

  • Who am I? Teacher, sister, mother, friend, enemy? None of these. None of these.
    I do not wish it to be that way. And yet, I am all of these , as well. Would I be in this job otherwise? What exactly is "teacher"? And for whom? Yes, and what does being a " learner" mean?

    July 1st 2001

    My heart is broken.

    September 2001

    Some of them are back. Bumped into them yesterday. It was them that approached me. Full of thanks for this thing I cannot name, and that I have not known, or been able to or wanted to give them. Our meeting was a genuine moment of pleasure. Short. Unique. Intense. And final.

    " Today, you and I have come to the end of our road together. I've seen all of you again. Some together. Others on their own. Always by chance. I believe we really did meet, in spite of everything. Because I had the impression you felt at home here, in my home place. And welcome.

    Thanks"


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