Al-Wahda School

Yemenat

3 days ago

My first education took place at 'Al-Wahda' School in 'Sharar,' located in 'Al-Qabeytah District.' This school started with just one teacher for all subjects, a man born in 'Abyssinia' to a Yemeni father from the village.
He was chosen to teach the underprivileged children of the region reading, writing, and some basic knowledge in a manner that was quite modern for those days and advanced for our areas, utilizing notebooks and pens, which was a departure from the traditional methods that had previously existed.
Education in our villages during our time was rare and acquired through strenuous effort and persistent dedication. It came at a modest financial cost, manageable for parents. The esteemed teacher we owe our initial education to, perhaps even all of our education, was Ali Ahmed Saad; no one else could take his place.
Before his arrival, education in our regions was scarce and often limited to Quranic reading and writing on wooden tablets, a practice known as 'dawa' and 'jar'a.' I recall hearing about the scholar Sayef Muta'har, who taught children to read and write on the tablets that they carried on their backs as they went to what was called 'Al-Ma'lamah.'
That form of education lacked a formal school; its methods were very traditional, relying heavily on memorization and rote learning, with collective repetition of what the scholar read. The lessons began with the letters, starting with 'A' as nothing and 'B' as a dot from below.
The method employed by our teacher, Ali Ahmed Saad, was based on a modern Egyptian curriculum. It began with the phonetic articulation of letters—dhamma, fat'hah, and kasrah—along with instruction in reading, handwriting, and dictation. As students progressed in their studies, the subjects expanded to include activities such as physical education, drawing, and various artistic skills, like sculpting and creating models from cardboard or reeds.
Overall, this teacher was well-educated, an excellent instructor, strict, and deeply committed to his profession and mission. At the same time, he could be harsh in his dealings with us for the slightest negligence, tardiness, or failure to arrive on time for morning assembly.
Al-Wahda School began with this teacher alone and was housed in a modest village mosque known as 'Abdulwali Mosque,' named after Abdulwali, one of the righteous saints, whose tomb remains prominent in the center of the mosque.
Adjacent to the mosque was a room known as 'Al-Shamsarah.' Later, an administrative office was built nearby, followed by three or four additional classrooms funded by the donations of local citizens. Some of these classrooms were constructed at the edge of an ancient cemetery, the origins of which remain unknown to us. The construction began when a fatwa permitting building outweighed one forbidding it, and thus the cemetery became part of the schoolyard.
In the beginning, we alternated our lessons between the mosque's roof, its interior, and beneath Al Sidr tree in front of the mosque, until we finally had an administrative office and four classrooms.
Al-Wahda School was my first school, where I studied until the fourth grade, and perhaps a little into the fifth, before transferring to another school in the southern part of the country in the 'Sha'ab' area of Tor Al-Bahah.
The name 'Al-Wahda' held a special allure for me; I felt proud and joyful to bear it. Even after completing my university studies, I cherished the memories of my early education.
This name and its essence were an integral part of us, reflecting the depth of our identity, our belonging, our nostalgia, and our fervent hope for Yemeni unity, indeed Arab unity, which we had always dreamed of. It stood at the forefront of our grand aspirations, even as children.
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The bamboo cane, which teacher Ali Ahmed Saad apparently brought from Ethiopia to discipline his students, was the most commonly used educational tool, deployed to punish students for negligence, underperformance, or tardiness to morning assembly.
Al 'falaka' was one of his severest punishments, involving lashing or striking the soles of the feet, sometimes reaching twenty strokes – a harsh punishment for children like us. At times, while enduring it, I felt it was more an act of vengeance than discipline. From my position as a student, I sometimes thought the teacher derived pleasure from such cruelty, while from his perspective, he had justifications for imposing such punishment, primarily believing it would benefit us and prevent negligence and laxity in learning.
To execute Al falaka punishment on a negligent student, he needed four physically strong classmates to assist. They would lay the student on the ground – two holding his hands and chest, and two lifting his feet to prevent movement – while the teacher forcefully struck the soles of the joined feet with the bamboo cane.
Among his common punishments was striking the palms with the cane, sometimes reaching ten consecutive strikes per palm. For heightened severity, he would strike the back of the hands, which caused us even more excruciating pain.
Sometimes we found ourselves unable to extend our hands due to the intense pain from these beatings. We felt our palms might burst with blood, often unable to carry them, sometimes feeling as if they were paralyzed. We experienced great cruelty from the teacher as he wielded the cane without regard for the stinging pain that sometimes reached our skulls. In cold weather, our pain sensation intensified manifold, even with fewer strikes, lest the pain overwhelm us completely.
Among his less severe physical punishments was forcing a student to stand on one leg, or pressing the ear with three fingers after placing a small stone under one finger to press against the earlobe, while pressing with the other two fingers on the opposite side to intensify our pain.