The Children of Komshulu

Shouts and jeers rocketed around us, and chair legs screeched painfully across the cement. The sound of tramping feet echoed off the walls. You would have thought we were caught in a riot, but no—it was only the first-grade classroom at the Komshulu[*] elementary school. I jumped as a water bottle hit the floor and a 6-year-old chased it as it skittered under a desk.

I looked over at my two sons sharing a nearby desk. Eight-year-old Anthony watched the chaos with wide brown eyes. Six-year-old Oliver had his hands over his ears and his face on his desk. It hadn’t been an easy decision to put them in the village school, but after our first 10 months in the Middle Eastern country where we had come to serve, our boys hadn’t learned any of the language or made any friends. I knew the transition wouldn’t be easy, but immigrant children enter schools and learn new languages all the time, so I knew our boys could too.

The school wanted both boys to enter first grade, and they asked that Jacob or I attend with them for the first few weeks. Jacob was still overseeing the renovations of the home we had bought, and I was pregnant with our fourth son and feeling very sick. But we felt this was an important step in integrating into our new community, so we each took a few weeks. We found it very beneficial in terms of language exposure and quite a valuable opportunity to understand the environment our children would be in for 25 hours a week.

“This is how it always is with first graders,” the teacher chuckled after one chaotic day. “They will settle down.” The students came from homes with little discipline, where preschool children are pampered and the word used for “naughty” also means “cute.” Historically, extended communities and hard work helped shape a child’s character, but with urbanization, these boundaries have become weaker. Once they reach first grade, yelling and shaming by their community begins to set boundaries and social cues that develop into acceptable social etiquette.

The Results

Boys are especially doted on. Mothers may hand-feed them and push them around in strollers until they are 5 years old, and they are spoiled and served with pleasure. They are encouraged at every act of dominance and competitiveness, with no regard for or training in thoughtfulness or service. In the more developed parts of the country, few families have more than two children, and they are usually spaced five or more years apart so that each child is raised almost as an only child. With the exception of common sports, children are discouraged from doing anything that might result in injury. “Don’t run!” mothers call out, or “Take a break; you’re going to sweat!” Climbing trees or using playground equipment in unorthodox ways is unthinkable. Digital screens and sweets help keep children docile when they may otherwise push boundaries. Even natural curiosity is often met with shaming or shushing.

Trying to integrate into the narrow world we lived in while trying to best meet the needs of our family and represent Jesus was a constant challenge.

It is no surprise that the results of this kind of child rearing are often bad tempers, fear, lack of curiosity, low self-confidence, lack of ingenuity or risk-taking, childhood obesity, poor self-control or ability to delay gratification, and poor coordination. According to Islam, children are born pure and will exhibit only what they are taught. Therefore, if you always treat a child sweetly and supply their wishes, they should be sweet and generous. Most of our friends seemed perplexed that sweet was not the outcome and admitted they didn’t quite know what the solution was.

“How do you get your children to obey?” we were often asked. Considering how completely these mothers served their little boys, they couldn’t imagine how we managed to raise four boys within 10 years of each other.

“There are three main things we do differently,” I noted after much observation. “They go to bed early, they don’t eat a lot of sweets, and they don’t watch television. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to expect them to have any self-control.” I told them that our boys were also required to help with household chores. The parents saw that our boys were allowed to climb trees and ride bicycles, even falling and getting hurt sometimes. It was one of the things we chose not to adapt to culturally. But there was one more thing.

“We follow Jesus Christ, who was the kindest person who ever lived,” I would tell them. “And we believe that we should be like Him, so we try to teach that to our children.”

A Strange Concept

One morning after our boys had been attending school without us, I had a call from the teacher. I understood just enough to know that there had been some kind of accident and that they wanted me to come. Entering the first-grade classroom, I found the students crowded around a desk where a teacher held a bloody cloth to Anthony’s head. All the children began chattering at once, and I pieced together the story: a boy had thrown something in the schoolyard, and Anthony had been struck in the head. He had fallen, bleeding and fainting, and terrified everyone. I could see by the look on Anthony’s face that he was enjoying the attention far more than he was hurt, but the teacher wanted me to promise to take him to the doctor.

Out in the hallway the teacher knocked on the next classroom door. A boy came out sniveling and hiccuping so hard he could hardly speak. It looked as if he had been through torture. “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry!” he said at the teacher’s prompting. I felt more sorry for him than for my own son. I knelt and put my hand gently on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be OK. He’s not hurt badly,” I reassured him.

It did turn out to be only a small cut. The next time we were at the school, the children crowded around us, talking about the incident. “What are you going to do?” asked a neighbor boy.
“What do you mean?” I asked.

“What are you going to do to the boy who hit him?” he asked eagerly.

“We”— I quickly looked up a word on Google Translate. “We forgive him,” I said.

“What?” he stood with his mouth wide open.

“Yes, we forgive him,” I repeated. I learned in time that repentance and forgiveness are uncommon in this culture of revenge and merit-based behavior. Over the next four years Anthony and Oliver, and Little Joe in his preschool, had many opportunities to shine their little lights. They didn’t say much about their faith, but they practiced forgiveness, kindness to the underdog, and extending the hand of grace. We discussed and prayed about many conflicts, and once even gave cookies and a chapter from 1 John to a bully.

Competing with the unhealthy lessons at school became increasingly difficult. “God,” I prayed each day as I dropped them off, “am I doing the right thing? Please show me when it’s time to pull them out.” The pandemic presented an opportunity to ease the older boys into homeschooling in the fourth grade. But stepping out of the groove in which the neighbor children were fixed also created alienation.

“Why are you taking them out of school?” a neighboring aunt asked. “They were outside when you came, and then they learned the language and made friends. Now they will be outsiders again!” I looked at her sadly, knowing she was right, but wishing it didn’t have to be that way. Trying to integrate into the narrow world we lived in while trying to best meet the needs of our family and represent Jesus was a constant challenge. I prayed for ongoing opportunities for engagement with other children.

When the small lot next to our home became available, we bought it and fenced it in to create a play area. Jacob put up a swing, and we made a patio and picnic table where we ate popcorn and put out coloring books. Our yard was often filled with happy children. Some learned to climb trees or pet a dog for the first time without fear. We celebrated birthdays, and I started teaching an English class. On a few rare occasions some children even joined us for Sabbath.

Most of the adults we were engaging with had never known a Christian before they met us. They had grown up with all kinds of false ideas about Christians. But the children of Komshulu village, whether kind or unkind, will grow up without the same bias, and hopefully that will someday open the doors for them to find that Friend of children who always waits with open arms.

[*] Not the actual name of the village.