You have to be a teacher to appreciate that teaching is really a calling — a profession driven by passion and selflessness. As a teacher one is called on to tackle problems that others might simply shrug off.
I am principal of Hlau-Hlau Primary School, situated in a village under the Zwelitsha Trust tribal authority in Mpumalanga. Life here is characterised by grinding poverty and a sense of hopelessness. We have been declared a no-fees school as parents battle to pay R55 school fees a year.
As a leader of a school in such an environment, I am always called on to deal with a whole range of socio-economic challenges. For instance, most children here are orphans and some head their families. Many of the families originally came from Mozambique and most parents are always on the move, looking for employment elsewhere.
One day, after my life orientation class for grade six learners, I went straight to my office to catch my breath and attend to some administrative chores. But just before I could settle down, I heard a gentle knock on the door. When I looked up I saw it was one of the boys who cares for his siblings.
The story he told me was that his father went to look for work in Johannesburg and a few months later the mother followed, leaving the children to fend for themselves.
I looked the boy in the face and asked what I could do for him. Rather timidly, he said: “Ma’am, I am not well. I am sick.” Without probing further I advised him to go to the clinic, which, fortunately, is not far from our school. He came back a little later and this time he held my hand. He said: “I have a pain in here,” pointing to his private parts.
I was really touched, but I concealed my emotions. Then I asked how long he’d had the problem. He said it had been bothering him for some time. Although I wanted to help, I felt helpless. My instinct was to see or touch or do something, but I held back because of my gender and the last thing I wanted was to embarrass him while he was in pain.
So I immediately asked one of the male teachers to accompany him to the clinic. I asked the teacher to make him feel comfortable and find out more about how he might have contracted a disease. As they went away, I could see the boy was struggling to walk.
After a few hours, the teacher came back with good news. The boy was discharged the same day. How relieved I was. Today the boy has grown up and is studying at one of the local secondary schools.
I must say I found the whole episode rather unusual, but also rewarding. It is seldom that children go to the principal’s office to talk about matters so private and personal. Most children would prefer to suffer in silence or speak to their friends or class teachers.
I viewed it as an expression of the confidence and trust the boy had in me not only to listen to him, but also to help.
It also brought home one point: that if we, as teachers, could open up and be more loving and caring we could pick up a lot of small things that, if not attended to, might adversely affect the performance of our learners. Perhaps more significantly, it made me realise just how noble and fulfilling the teaching profession is.
Thandi Morupane is principal of Hlau-Hlau Primary School in Zwelitsha Trust in Mpumalanga. She came second in the category of excellence in primary school leadership in the 2008 National Teaching Awards