Punjab: English schooling for street kids
by John Maxwell
Fr John Maxwell founded the St. John Education System, a school that provides an education in English to street kids. Five years ago, he met a boy called Daud, who sold newspapers. This is the story of how it all began.
Islamabad (AsiaNews) – “We have run out of excuses to let things be as they are. If only one per cent of us took the responsibility to take one 10-year-old from the street under our wing, in ten years we would have 1.8 million more educated people than what would have been otherwise. Ten years fly by. Imagine if two per cent of us mobilised,” said Fr John Maxwell, founder of the St. John Education System, an English-language school open to street kids in Layyah District, Punjab. Children who beg, sweep the streets or sell newspapers on street corners are all welcome. The clergyman opened to the facility to provide the kids an alternative to street life, starting with education.
In March of this year, the Pakistan Education Task Force released a report on the country’s educational emergency. It found a low level of school attendance because of poor government policies. Among the children interviewed, it found that more than 85 per cent wanted a “better education” and more than 90 per cent thought education made children “become ‘better’ human beings.”
Here is Fr Maxwell’s story to AsiaNews about the encounter that inspired him to set up the St. John Education System.
(For more on the issue on education in Pakistan, see AsiaNews’s dossier ‘Education can stop the Taliban in Pakistan’).
It all began with a boy named Daud, which means David in English. I clearly remember it was almost five years ago, I was travelling to the Bishop house located on Mall Road, Lahore. I stopped at the traffic light to be greeted by the usual herd of beggars, windscreen cleaners and newspaper sellers. One of the newspaper sellers, Daud, four feet in height, asked me for a lift to the next signal.
Irritated by the commotion around me, I chose to ignore him. Rather than moving on, he boldly walked in front of my car, locked eyes with me, stuck his teeth out like President Asif Zardari would. He stared at the sun and performed a break dance in defiance. His army of four footers was in hysterics. The traffic light turned green and I drove on only to see high fives being exchanged in the rear view mirror.
About a week later, I was going to pick up a colleague from the General Bus Stand and once again stopped at the same traffic light. Daud appeared, but this time he was alone. He politely informed me "Sir, I have to go to the next signal.” I asked him to come around and sit in the passenger seat. As he sat inside the air-conditioned car, he took a huge sigh of relief. He looked tired, worn out and a bit disoriented.
I asked, “What happened? Tired of singing and dancing?” He looked at me quite confused. In return, I gave him a big smile and subtly mimicked his break dance move from the week earlier. He started laughing uncontrollably for about sixty seconds. “Sorry, sir”, he said to which I replied that “Pakistan needs more artists, so he needn’t be."
After about five minutes, we arrived at his stop. He thanked me and asked if I wanted to buy a newspaper. I looked at him quietly for a few seconds trying to picture his entire day from start to finish. Perhaps a little recess was in order.
“I’ll tell you what…”. I proposed, “I will buy the entire stack if you give me company to the General Bus Stand and back”. It was as if the entire weight of the world was lifted off Daud`s little shoulders and replaced by the thought of complete bliss, even if it was for just an hour. He agreed, closed the door and sat back down. I put on his seat belt for him, turned up the volume on the stereo and divided the AC vents between us. Conversation was expected to be limited, but satisfaction immense.
As it turned out, there were plenty of stories that were shared on our journey, some humorous, some serious and some downright painful. I could only offer two-bit advice knowing very well that it was all well and good in the theoretical sense, but too hard for someone in his situation to apply. Instead, we both chose to focus on the green patch of grass that was the present, especially the background music. In fact, Daud became quite the fan of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack as suggested by his numerous head bobs and shoulder shrugs.
Upon arriving at the bus stand parking lot, Daud jumped out of the car and raced towards the arrival exit as if he was going to receive some long lost friend after many years of separation. Trying to stand tall on the railing he would point towards every arriving passenger and impatiently ask, “Is that them?” When my colleague finally came out of the exit, Daud ran towards him and grabbed the luggage.
The three of us sat in the car and proceeded towards the Bishop’s House. During this leg of the journey, Daud was very formal. Not a peep came from the back seat. My colleague and I conversed mostly in English with a few sentences of Urdu mixed in as we usually do, ignoring the fact that there was another passenger in the car. After about ten minutes, my colleague started asking Daud questions about where he lived, what he did, his parents, etc. But I was a little surprised at the bluntness of the answers and how they lacked the same details he shared with me, earlier.
Occasionally, I would glance at him through the rear view mirror and find him staring into the empty space as if he was trying to listen to something intently. We ended up dropping Daud at the Calvary Ground Bridge. As promised, I bought his newspapers. I also asked Daud if I could meet him the next day at the same traffic light. He agreed.
I packed a few bags of some old clothes and other things that I thought would be handy for him. Daud was at the traffic light, but without any newspapers this time. He sat in the car looking quite dissatisfied. I asked him if he had a great day and sold out. His jaw dropping reply caught me completely off guard: "I don’t want to sell newspapers. I want to learn English."
His timing couldn’t have been worse. I was leaving for the United Kingdom in two weeks to attend a seminary course or else I would have taught him the language myself. I could have fixed him up with another family member, but that thought didn’t cross my mind at the time. Instead, I took him to the Anarkali Bazar and bought some primary school books for English. But there was a catch. He had to find someone to teach him.
Parked outside the bookstore in Anarkali Bazar, I gave Daud an hour-long lecture, the content of which shall remain between the two of us. I handed him the bags, the books and an envelope.
He looked very sad. I felt even worse. Then I ripped out a piece of paper from a notebook and wrote Daud a letter… in English (the contents of which shall also remain undisclosed).
I wrote my e-mail address on it. If Daud ever wrote back to me—well I don’t have to explain what that would mean. Almost five years later, I received an e-mail from Daud for the first time. His determination to learn to speak the language proved to be truly remarkable.
Daud`s story is a testament to the fact that our youth is thirsty for education. Unfortunately, our leaders have not provided the necessary infrastructure but that story is old now.
We have run out of excuses to let things be as they are. If only one per cent of us took the responsibility to take one 10-year-old from the street under our wing, in ten years we would have 1.8 million more educated people than what would have been otherwise. Ten years fly by. Imagine if two per cent of us mobilised.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to do anything substantial for Daud. He is completely self-made. This inspired me to start the St. John Education System, which aims to expand all over Pakistan and educate the children who have the hunger for education. With this vision, we are struggling to educate the children like Daud who only need a chance.
(Jibran Khan contributed to the article)
In March of this year, the Pakistan Education Task Force released a report on the country’s educational emergency. It found a low level of school attendance because of poor government policies. Among the children interviewed, it found that more than 85 per cent wanted a “better education” and more than 90 per cent thought education made children “become ‘better’ human beings.”
Here is Fr Maxwell’s story to AsiaNews about the encounter that inspired him to set up the St. John Education System.
(For more on the issue on education in Pakistan, see AsiaNews’s dossier ‘Education can stop the Taliban in Pakistan’).
It all began with a boy named Daud, which means David in English. I clearly remember it was almost five years ago, I was travelling to the Bishop house located on Mall Road, Lahore. I stopped at the traffic light to be greeted by the usual herd of beggars, windscreen cleaners and newspaper sellers. One of the newspaper sellers, Daud, four feet in height, asked me for a lift to the next signal.
Irritated by the commotion around me, I chose to ignore him. Rather than moving on, he boldly walked in front of my car, locked eyes with me, stuck his teeth out like President Asif Zardari would. He stared at the sun and performed a break dance in defiance. His army of four footers was in hysterics. The traffic light turned green and I drove on only to see high fives being exchanged in the rear view mirror.
About a week later, I was going to pick up a colleague from the General Bus Stand and once again stopped at the same traffic light. Daud appeared, but this time he was alone. He politely informed me "Sir, I have to go to the next signal.” I asked him to come around and sit in the passenger seat. As he sat inside the air-conditioned car, he took a huge sigh of relief. He looked tired, worn out and a bit disoriented.
I asked, “What happened? Tired of singing and dancing?” He looked at me quite confused. In return, I gave him a big smile and subtly mimicked his break dance move from the week earlier. He started laughing uncontrollably for about sixty seconds. “Sorry, sir”, he said to which I replied that “Pakistan needs more artists, so he needn’t be."
After about five minutes, we arrived at his stop. He thanked me and asked if I wanted to buy a newspaper. I looked at him quietly for a few seconds trying to picture his entire day from start to finish. Perhaps a little recess was in order.
“I’ll tell you what…”. I proposed, “I will buy the entire stack if you give me company to the General Bus Stand and back”. It was as if the entire weight of the world was lifted off Daud`s little shoulders and replaced by the thought of complete bliss, even if it was for just an hour. He agreed, closed the door and sat back down. I put on his seat belt for him, turned up the volume on the stereo and divided the AC vents between us. Conversation was expected to be limited, but satisfaction immense.
As it turned out, there were plenty of stories that were shared on our journey, some humorous, some serious and some downright painful. I could only offer two-bit advice knowing very well that it was all well and good in the theoretical sense, but too hard for someone in his situation to apply. Instead, we both chose to focus on the green patch of grass that was the present, especially the background music. In fact, Daud became quite the fan of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack as suggested by his numerous head bobs and shoulder shrugs.
Upon arriving at the bus stand parking lot, Daud jumped out of the car and raced towards the arrival exit as if he was going to receive some long lost friend after many years of separation. Trying to stand tall on the railing he would point towards every arriving passenger and impatiently ask, “Is that them?” When my colleague finally came out of the exit, Daud ran towards him and grabbed the luggage.
The three of us sat in the car and proceeded towards the Bishop’s House. During this leg of the journey, Daud was very formal. Not a peep came from the back seat. My colleague and I conversed mostly in English with a few sentences of Urdu mixed in as we usually do, ignoring the fact that there was another passenger in the car. After about ten minutes, my colleague started asking Daud questions about where he lived, what he did, his parents, etc. But I was a little surprised at the bluntness of the answers and how they lacked the same details he shared with me, earlier.
Occasionally, I would glance at him through the rear view mirror and find him staring into the empty space as if he was trying to listen to something intently. We ended up dropping Daud at the Calvary Ground Bridge. As promised, I bought his newspapers. I also asked Daud if I could meet him the next day at the same traffic light. He agreed.
I packed a few bags of some old clothes and other things that I thought would be handy for him. Daud was at the traffic light, but without any newspapers this time. He sat in the car looking quite dissatisfied. I asked him if he had a great day and sold out. His jaw dropping reply caught me completely off guard: "I don’t want to sell newspapers. I want to learn English."
His timing couldn’t have been worse. I was leaving for the United Kingdom in two weeks to attend a seminary course or else I would have taught him the language myself. I could have fixed him up with another family member, but that thought didn’t cross my mind at the time. Instead, I took him to the Anarkali Bazar and bought some primary school books for English. But there was a catch. He had to find someone to teach him.
Parked outside the bookstore in Anarkali Bazar, I gave Daud an hour-long lecture, the content of which shall remain between the two of us. I handed him the bags, the books and an envelope.
He looked very sad. I felt even worse. Then I ripped out a piece of paper from a notebook and wrote Daud a letter… in English (the contents of which shall also remain undisclosed).
I wrote my e-mail address on it. If Daud ever wrote back to me—well I don’t have to explain what that would mean. Almost five years later, I received an e-mail from Daud for the first time. His determination to learn to speak the language proved to be truly remarkable.
Daud`s story is a testament to the fact that our youth is thirsty for education. Unfortunately, our leaders have not provided the necessary infrastructure but that story is old now.
We have run out of excuses to let things be as they are. If only one per cent of us took the responsibility to take one 10-year-old from the street under our wing, in ten years we would have 1.8 million more educated people than what would have been otherwise. Ten years fly by. Imagine if two per cent of us mobilised.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to do anything substantial for Daud. He is completely self-made. This inspired me to start the St. John Education System, which aims to expand all over Pakistan and educate the children who have the hunger for education. With this vision, we are struggling to educate the children like Daud who only need a chance.
(Jibran Khan contributed to the article)
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04/06/2020 14:26
04/06/2020 14:26
