Integrating Ethiopian Immigrants in Israel

More than 65,000 Ethiopian Olim live in Israel today. Many of them come from rural areas, and first made their way to refugee camps in Addis Ababa to await their 'aliyah', or 'immigration' to Israel. When they arrive in Israel, most Ethiopian immigrants have no formal education and cannot read or write Amharic. The severity of the culture shock cannot be underestimated. In some cases, immigrants have to bridge a knowledge gap spanning hundreds of years. In addition to adjusting to life in a modern, technologically advanced society, Ethiopian immigrants are faced with a new climate, a new language, unfamiliar religious rituals and a very different status for women. Ninety-two per cent of the men from the villages earned a living as independent farmers, the remainder worked as weavers, carpenters, metalworkers or other commercial activity. Among urban residents, there are people who worked as drivers, teachers and soldiers. Some 10 per cent may have had between five and twelve years of schooling.

Before it closed down in 1999, many Ethiopians participated in Hebrew learning projects at the Hatzerot Yassaf centre, which aimed to help ease the transition between the initial arrival and permanent housing elsewhere in the country. They would spend between 12 and 18 months at the centre on average. This was where a new approach to teaching Ethiopians was first implemented.

Past approaches left much to be desired. As in so many other cases, the residents of the host country perceived their role as one of educator and teacher, in an integration process that did not take into account the immigrant's culture, past and existing knowledge base. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that many Ethiopian immigrants were illiterate when they arrived in Israel. How could they be expected to learn Hebrew before wholly mastering all aspects of their native Amharic? Teaching methods applied to western, literate immigrants are based on both a verbal and written culture. These tried and tested strategies are worthless in the face of a society that communicates predominantly by oral means. The Ethiopians are typically listeners rather than talkers; their learning processes revolve around listening, absorbing and passing on stories and proverbs told by their elders.

Whereas an adult student from the West is likely to possess a number of acquired skills such as classification, selection and application, such tools were not part of the Ethiopian student's inventory. This led to confusion and frustration in class, on the part of both teachers and pupils.

The framework for the new concept, first employed at Hatzerot Yassaf in 1997, was generated by the Head of the Adult Education Division, Dr Meir Peretz. It was decided that those most fitted to teach Ethiopian immigrants were young Ethiopian men and women with an academic background, perhaps an Israeli university qualification. These new recruits possessed the two most important tools for this challenging post -a sound command of Hebrew, and good spoken and written Amharic.

The Israeli Ministry of Education had previously tried to remedy the unfavourable situation by doubling the course length from five to ten months, and reducing the breadth of vocabulary for Ethiopian learners. But the subject matter remained the same, and cosmetic changes did not go far enough to address the problem. The new programme aimed to remove cultural barriers between teachers and pupils; teach the immigrants in their native tongue as a confidence-building measure; to use subjects that are relevant to the students' lives, using their past experience and knowledge as a learning resource; and encourage pupils to play an active role in the design and implementation of the programme, thereby creating a coherent learning community.

The new approach took the Ethiopian oral culture into account, recognizing that the society of the immigrant is one that strives towards developing superior oral skills, and mastering the socio-linguistic rules, such as who one faces when speaking, how and why; when silence is necessary; and who is permitted to present a problem and how.

This programme has now been in use since 1998. The classes are held in special institutions across the country. Teaching is intensive: due to their special needs, Ethiopian immigrants receive around 1,000 hours of tuition over a 10-month period. The first evaluation took place six months after the scheme was introduced, and the results were largely positive. Implementing the new strategy has been a learning process for all concerned. Graduates of the revised curriculum have been finding it easier to integrate without being forced to deny what they are and where they have come from. And this can only be of benefit to the society in which they now live.

Start probing however, and the idyllic sheen is quickly scratched away. When UNESCO's literacy specialist visited the villages of Rukubji and Phubjika in the Himalayan foothills, she heard disturbing reports about how for the people of Bhutan, life is a constant struggle for survival. "It is even harder for the women," she says. "Hundreds of miles from a doctor, a large percentage of women die in childbirth." As for their working lives, she discovered that for Bhutan's rural poor, the daily physical grind takes a heavy toll on health and happiness. "We weave for the whole family," said one of the women, Amma Karma Dorji. "We don't like any job we do. It's all painful." Amma Choden joined in, saying the most hated job was refining the wool before making it into thread -an activity which resulted in lifelong shoulder pains.

The weavers work at traditional looms which require them to sit with their legs straight out for hours on end. This type of loom, also widely used in the Lao People's Democratic Republic and southern China, is blamed for increasing the risk of a difficult and perhaps fatal childbirth. The literacy specialist's young companion Tenzin was particularly interested in the loom issue, and quizzed the women at length. The results of this encounter emerged three months later in the form of a learning programme for women introducing a new type of weaving loom.

Another local practice that inspired an educational booklet is based on the belief that if men carry manure to fertilize their fields, it will bring them great misfortune. Consequently, women are required to carry all the manure, bent double under huge baskets strapped to their backs. This traditional division of labour led Suman Pradhan of the Bhutanese Women's Association to write The Enlightened Man -the story of a crop that failed because the women could not cope with fetching all the necessary manure. Sheer frustration forced her husband to defy tradition and carry manure to the fields. The crops flourished, and inspired many other men to help their wives with this strenuous task.

Many people have now read the booklet, which is available in literacy centres in Phubjika and Rukubji. Men and women have been inspired to discuss the issue for the first time. "The burden is not too much on me," says Rinzin, a young teacher and farmer who now helps his wife to carry manure, "and the work's easier for my wife."

In Bhutan, twice as many boys as girls attend school. The official enrolment rate is just 20 per cent of boys of primary school age, meaning that just 10 per cent of girls receive an education. The situation has come to the attention of the country's royal family. While King Jigme Wangchuk has laid down a policy to promote Education for All, Princess Ashi Sonam has called for programmes for women aimed at increasing their self-reliance, self-respect and ultimately, their status in society.

Bhutan is wary of indiscriminate modernization, which might pose a threat to national integrity. Its development policy is cautious. The question is whether it can be progressive enough to improve its people's lives and to achieve equality between the sexes, yet cautious enough to preserve their paradise. To the casual observer or tourist passing through, Bhutan is close to paradise. Set like a sparkling jewel in the Himalayan mountain chain, the isolated kingdom is deceptively dazzling. The general perception of life in Bhutan is one of harmony, relative prosperity and gender equality.

Start probing however, and the idyllic sheen is quickly scratched away. When UNESCO's literacy specialist visited the villages of Rukubji and Phubjika in the Himalayan foothills, she heard disturbing reports about how for the people of Bhutan, life is a constant struggle for survival. "It is even harder for the women," she says. "Hundreds of miles from a doctor, a large percentage of women die in childbirth." As for their working lives, she discovered that for Bhutan's rural poor, the daily physical grind takes a heavy toll on health and happiness. "We weave for the whole family," said one of the women, Amma Karma Dorji. "We don't like any job we do. It's all painful." Amma Choden joined in, saying the most hated job was refining the wool before making it into thread -an activity which resulted in lifelong shoulder pains.

The weavers work at traditional looms which require them to sit with their legs straight out for hours on end. This type of loom, also widely used in the Lao People's Democratic Republic and southern China, is blamed for increasing the risk of a difficult and perhaps fatal childbirth. The literacy specialist's young companion Tenzin was particularly interested in the loom issue, and quizzed the women at length. The results of this encounter emerged three months later in the form of a learning programme for women introducing a new type of weaving loom.

Another local practice that inspired an educational booklet is based on the belief that if men carry manure to fertilize their fields, it will bring them great misfortune. Consequently, women are required to carry all the manure, bent double under huge baskets strapped to their backs. This traditional division of labour led Suman Pradhan of the Bhutanese Women's Association to write The Enlightened Man -the story of a crop that failed because the women could not cope with fetching all the necessary manure. Sheer frustration forced her husband to defy tradition and carry manure to the fields. The crops flourished, and inspired many other men to help their wives with this strenuous task.

Many people have now read the booklet, which is available in literacy centres in Phubjika and Rukubji. Men and women have been inspired to discuss the issue for the first time. "The burden is not too much on me," says Rinzin, a young teacher and farmer who now helps his wife to carry manure, "and the work's easier for my wife."

In Bhutan, twice as many boys as girls attend school. The official enrolment rate is just 20 per cent of boys of primary school age, meaning that just 10 per cent of girls receive an education. The situation has come to the attention of the country's royal family. While King Jigme Wangchuk has laid down a policy to promote Education for All, Princess Ashi Sonam has called for programmes for women aimed at increasing their self-reliance, self-respect and ultimately, their status in society.

Bhutan is wary of indiscriminate modernization, which might pose a threat to national integrity. Its development policy is cautious. The question is whether it can be progressive enough to improve its people's lives and to achieve equality between the sexes, yet cautious enough to preserve their paradise.