Miss-Delectable
New Member
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2004
- Messages
- 17,160
- Reaction score
- 7
http://www.newhousenews.com/archive/palmer051206.html
The Iraqi capital is one of the deadliest and noisiest cities on Earth: Car bombs or improvised explosive devices blow up with sickening regularity, firefights erupt spontaneously, helicopters thunder across the skies, and ambulance sirens blare.
But for the students at the Al-Amel Institute for the Deaf and Mute, Baghdad is a silent world, where the hushed bloodshed often compounds the omnipresent terror and confusion.
The school is one of seven in Baghdad for hearing-impaired students. Iraq is said to have an unusually high rate of deafness; intermarriage within extended families has increased the incidence of congenital deafness, and children with common ear infections do not always get adequate medical treatment.
Built in 1959, Al-Amel continues to provide an oasis of comfort and opportunity for its young charges, ranging from 4 to 15 years old, despite the challenges it faces operating amid the ongoing violence here.
``This is a difficult society for the students to live in," said Henaa Zedan, 49, the school's headmistress since 1989. "We try to create a relationship with the students like a mother caring for her child."
Though Al-Amel is located in the relatively secure quarter of Arasat in central Baghdad, it's a growing challenge for parents -- who drive their children to school -- to simply arrive at the building for their classes. According to school records, only 180 of the 207 students registered currently attend.
``Some of the students can no longer come here because their families are afraid to let them travel outside their neighborhood, and many families have likely left Baghdad," Zedan said.
Meanwhile, those continuing their studies are often frustrated by forced absences.
``The students sometimes miss up to a week of school due to security, and they must work harder to catch up when they return," said Sabbah Hamed, 47, a social worker at Al-Amel. "The teachers have to tutor them one-on-one to make sure they don't fall behind."
Al-Amel's faculty and staff train the students to recognize and react to hostilities surrounding them.
``We tell the children to drop to the ground and lay flat like a pencil during any kind of attack," said Asmaa Al-Daem, 35, who teaches second grade at the school. "Many of the students have partial hearing so they know when an explosion has gone off. Others can sense them from vibrations, or through the reactions of people around them."
Most of the students perceive kidnapping as the greatest threat to them.
``My friend's brother was kidnapped and killed, and he could speak" Allah Saadon, 16, signed through an interpreter. "I'm afraid the same would happen to me."
Al-Amel serves as a forum for its students to discuss and interpret the whirlwind of current events swirling throughout the country.
``Whenever there is a big news event, the students want to discuss it with one another and their teachers the next day, because it's often to difficult for them to be understood outside of the school," said Hamed, the school's social worker.
Socializing in the school is particularly important for the youngest students who often feel stigmatized among other children for their failure to communicate with them.
``It's difficult for the kids when they first arrive because they feel ashamed of their disability," said Jenan Thamir, 34, who teaches third grade at Al-Amel. "Once they start making friends here they become more confident, and as they get older they're less afraid to reach out to people."
Funding for Al-Amel has increased during the past three years due to generous support from the labor and social affairs ministry, which oversees the school, along with assistance from local and international aid groups.
Al-Amel's two-story building is in far better condition than most Iraqi public schools. The classrooms are well stocked with supplies, the hallways clean and painted, the courtyards spacious and neatly groomed, and a generator supplies electricity when needed.
But training for the school's 23 teachers has been limited. Schools like Al-Amel require teachers to hold only a high school diploma, and no university in Iraq currently offers degrees for teachers working exclusively with deaf students.
Students here strive to maintain pace with grade level studies comparable with their peers in other Iraqi schools, but the opportunities available to them after graduation are far fewer.
While Iraqi officials have moved to increase awareness of the deaf and provide more public services, including signing translations during news broadcasts on government-run TV stations, some at Al-Amel say it's not nearly enough.
``We can contribute much more if we have the opportunity," said Nadhal Sukel, 48, an art teacher who is deaf and has worked 26 years at the school. "It's very difficult to get a job in Iraq if you're deaf. The government has done nothing to change that."
Still, the students here are not deterred from their modest dreams.
In the sewing room on the second floor of Al-Amel Assra Bashir, 16, carefully pieced together a white lace tablecloth under a sewing machine amid colorful print dresses hanging from the wall next to intricately patterned quilts, embroidered handbags and pillows, and finely stitched dolls.
Bashir said she hopes to one day earn a living sewing for the special committee for the deaf, a government-sponsored organization that takes on contracts from private firms.
Heneen Adnan, 13, who was pounding a keyboard in the school's computer lab, said she wants to study graphic design.
``My friends and I are obsessed with fashion," Adnan signed through an interpreter. "I think I can find a job designing clothes on the computer."
In the school's auditorium one day recently, 12 girls in navy jumpers, white dress shirts and headscarves danced in synchronicity around a male student draped in a painted map of Iraq while a recorded version of the country's new national anthem played, and a teacher motioned cues from the back of the hall.
No words were needed at the end of the performance, when the small crowd rose for a standing ovation and smiles broke across the students' faces.
The Iraqi capital is one of the deadliest and noisiest cities on Earth: Car bombs or improvised explosive devices blow up with sickening regularity, firefights erupt spontaneously, helicopters thunder across the skies, and ambulance sirens blare.
But for the students at the Al-Amel Institute for the Deaf and Mute, Baghdad is a silent world, where the hushed bloodshed often compounds the omnipresent terror and confusion.
The school is one of seven in Baghdad for hearing-impaired students. Iraq is said to have an unusually high rate of deafness; intermarriage within extended families has increased the incidence of congenital deafness, and children with common ear infections do not always get adequate medical treatment.
Built in 1959, Al-Amel continues to provide an oasis of comfort and opportunity for its young charges, ranging from 4 to 15 years old, despite the challenges it faces operating amid the ongoing violence here.
``This is a difficult society for the students to live in," said Henaa Zedan, 49, the school's headmistress since 1989. "We try to create a relationship with the students like a mother caring for her child."
Though Al-Amel is located in the relatively secure quarter of Arasat in central Baghdad, it's a growing challenge for parents -- who drive their children to school -- to simply arrive at the building for their classes. According to school records, only 180 of the 207 students registered currently attend.
``Some of the students can no longer come here because their families are afraid to let them travel outside their neighborhood, and many families have likely left Baghdad," Zedan said.
Meanwhile, those continuing their studies are often frustrated by forced absences.
``The students sometimes miss up to a week of school due to security, and they must work harder to catch up when they return," said Sabbah Hamed, 47, a social worker at Al-Amel. "The teachers have to tutor them one-on-one to make sure they don't fall behind."
Al-Amel's faculty and staff train the students to recognize and react to hostilities surrounding them.
``We tell the children to drop to the ground and lay flat like a pencil during any kind of attack," said Asmaa Al-Daem, 35, who teaches second grade at the school. "Many of the students have partial hearing so they know when an explosion has gone off. Others can sense them from vibrations, or through the reactions of people around them."
Most of the students perceive kidnapping as the greatest threat to them.
``My friend's brother was kidnapped and killed, and he could speak" Allah Saadon, 16, signed through an interpreter. "I'm afraid the same would happen to me."
Al-Amel serves as a forum for its students to discuss and interpret the whirlwind of current events swirling throughout the country.
``Whenever there is a big news event, the students want to discuss it with one another and their teachers the next day, because it's often to difficult for them to be understood outside of the school," said Hamed, the school's social worker.
Socializing in the school is particularly important for the youngest students who often feel stigmatized among other children for their failure to communicate with them.
``It's difficult for the kids when they first arrive because they feel ashamed of their disability," said Jenan Thamir, 34, who teaches third grade at Al-Amel. "Once they start making friends here they become more confident, and as they get older they're less afraid to reach out to people."
Funding for Al-Amel has increased during the past three years due to generous support from the labor and social affairs ministry, which oversees the school, along with assistance from local and international aid groups.
Al-Amel's two-story building is in far better condition than most Iraqi public schools. The classrooms are well stocked with supplies, the hallways clean and painted, the courtyards spacious and neatly groomed, and a generator supplies electricity when needed.
But training for the school's 23 teachers has been limited. Schools like Al-Amel require teachers to hold only a high school diploma, and no university in Iraq currently offers degrees for teachers working exclusively with deaf students.
Students here strive to maintain pace with grade level studies comparable with their peers in other Iraqi schools, but the opportunities available to them after graduation are far fewer.
While Iraqi officials have moved to increase awareness of the deaf and provide more public services, including signing translations during news broadcasts on government-run TV stations, some at Al-Amel say it's not nearly enough.
``We can contribute much more if we have the opportunity," said Nadhal Sukel, 48, an art teacher who is deaf and has worked 26 years at the school. "It's very difficult to get a job in Iraq if you're deaf. The government has done nothing to change that."
Still, the students here are not deterred from their modest dreams.
In the sewing room on the second floor of Al-Amel Assra Bashir, 16, carefully pieced together a white lace tablecloth under a sewing machine amid colorful print dresses hanging from the wall next to intricately patterned quilts, embroidered handbags and pillows, and finely stitched dolls.
Bashir said she hopes to one day earn a living sewing for the special committee for the deaf, a government-sponsored organization that takes on contracts from private firms.
Heneen Adnan, 13, who was pounding a keyboard in the school's computer lab, said she wants to study graphic design.
``My friends and I are obsessed with fashion," Adnan signed through an interpreter. "I think I can find a job designing clothes on the computer."
In the school's auditorium one day recently, 12 girls in navy jumpers, white dress shirts and headscarves danced in synchronicity around a male student draped in a painted map of Iraq while a recorded version of the country's new national anthem played, and a teacher motioned cues from the back of the hall.
No words were needed at the end of the performance, when the small crowd rose for a standing ovation and smiles broke across the students' faces.