I visited Sekolah Kebangsaan Sungai Bunbun, a primary school in Carey Island recently for a project I was working on. The school looked ordinary enough from the outside with an old security guard half-asleep at the entrance, a row of potted flowers along the fence and the school’s name emblazoned across a brick wall.

However, as I entered the school compound, I notice something out of the ordinary. It was a big signboard saying “Cikgu sayang kamu” (Teachers love you).

Those of us who send or pick-up our children from school are familiar with the signboards usually erected in the vicinity of the school. Most carry messages like: “Terima kasih kerana datang awal ke sekolah” (Thank you for coming to school early).

However, the signboard at this Carey Island primary school was of a personal nature and I was curious as to who the teachers in the school were.

Our meeting took place in the school canteen. Following a brief introduction, I was invited by the teachers to a “makan-makan” session with Lili, a Mah Meri student. The Orang Asli girl was very shy and answered my questions in whispers. Clearly, she was not comfortable talking to me.

“I am sorry but I hope you understand Lili is very shy with strangers. She usually takes time to get to know a person before opening up,” said the teacher.

“That’s okay, Lili. I’ll visit you often and we’ll get to know each other better over time, okay?” I said, smiling.

After our brief chat, Lili was sent back to her classroom. I then asked her teacher how the girl was doing in her studies.

“She is 12 and will be sitting for the UPSR this year. But most Mah Meri students like Lili are struggling to cope with their studies. They are not very fluent in our language so learning is difficult. And the fact that no one at home is able to help them with their revisions is a challenge too. They are somewhat trapped between both worlds – the Mah Meri world and the modern world,” explained the teacher.

“If language is a problem, how can they sit for the UPSR?” I asked.

“Most of the Mah Meri students do not do well in the UPSR and they seldom move on to secondary school. Even the one or two who do, in most cases, do not complete their studies because they cannot catch-up with the rest of the students – also because of their own lack of self-confidence. If not bullied, they often feel invisible.”

“I don’t understand. Why is it tough for them to be in secondary school with other kids when they are already used to sharing classrooms with these kids over here?” I asked, as my eyes roamed around Lili’s classroom consisting of Orang Asli, Indian and Malay students.

“There are five primary schools and only one secondary school around here. While the students in this school are used to their Mah Meri friends, many from the other schools aren’t.”

I was told that when all these students complete their UPSR examinations and go on to Form One, all of them are transferred to the same school – and because the secondary school practises class streaming, more often than not, the Mah Meri students are placed with some of the weakest students in the school. These classes also consist of a fair number of students who are troubled or have disciplinary issues.

“What happens to the Mah Meri children who decide not to pursue their education after primary school or those who drop out from secondary school?” I asked, hoping not to sound too naive.

“They either marry young or help supplement their family’s income. Even now, at the age of 12, Lili is already being taught by her mother the art of carving and weaving Mah Meri handiwork. And over the weekends, she helps her parents collect palm oil fruit. These are done to prepare them with skills very much needed in their future.”

An awkward silence hung in the air between us as I digested the information.

I found myself asking quite bluntly, “Why even come to school to learn something they can barely understand?”

The teacher smiled before explaining. “There are many other things more important than Science and Mathematics for these children. We are teaching them something more than a syllabus-based education. We are teaching them to assimilate. We encourage them to have the confidence to talk and be heard. We teach them that there are people outside their immediate families who care and want to help. We teach them to trust. The Orang Asli are part of our society but they have been living in isolation, hence it is essential to make them feel that they belong.”

I looked at the teacher in admiration.

“Our school syllabus does not help Lili and her friends in any way. Not only it is way too tough for them, in most cases it ends up discouraging them. What we do is to cater to their needs through the use of the syllabus. We believe our job as teachers is not merely to teach according to the syllabus given by the ministry. We feel we have a heavier task at hand – to educate, not teach. We find more satisfaction seeing improvements in our students rather than merely completing a syllabus.”

As I walked out of the school on that hot, sunny afternoon, my eyes caught the signboard once again.
“Cikgu sayang kamu”

I smiled.

“Saya juga sayang cikgu.”

Fa Abdul is an FMT columnist.

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