Deuteronomy

Lady of Elche statue

In this week's Camino a Ítaca we walk back to the fifth book of the Jewish torah, back to deuteronomy. Well, if not exactly back to this religious text, back to something equally atavistic: Oposiciones. The medieval method they use here in Spain to choose their public school teachers (and other public servants). That biblical plague that everyone in the country seems to think is immutable, inevitable and impossible to change. Click over to read the original version published in Spanish in the regional newspaper, el Hoy, or read the English version below. (pdf en castellano abajo)

Today is an auspicious day, for some that is. These fortunate few will begin the day as normal human beings, nervously eating breakfast while reviewing their notes in some bar, trying to avoid eye contact with nearby colleagues who are doing the same. The chosen few will then join the masses of despondent people flooding into their designated buildings, only to emerge a few hours later as demigods in waiting. The vast majority of those who aren’t so fortunate will then be thrown back on the sacrificial pyre of the interinos (temporary government workers) until the oracles prophesize that the planets have once again aligned and another round of oposiciones (public exams) is convoked. These ill-omened souls will be sentenced to once again go back to the topics they will have to study, which at least in the case of language teachers, are only vaguely related to what they actually do, and waste vital energy memorizing useless information. Energy that could be put to much better use by receiving on-the-job training.

These human sacrifices aren’t new. The classical Greek historian Strabo wrote of the Lusitanians inspecting the vitals of their victims well before the arrival of Deuteronomy and Leviticus to the peninsula. What is surprising, is that this extremely ineffectual, baffling divination still exists.

How is it possible that a tribunal can decide whether the querent in front of them is really right for a job after merely having taken an exam? Do they use some sort of necromantic sorcery to distinguish between whether the candidate really understands their profession or if they simply have a good memory and had a better night’s sleep than the previous contestant? Are they, in fact, oracles that can foresee the future and predict that this person will be a competent colleague? A colleague, I might add, that will be harder to get rid of than pagan beliefs if they turn out to not be right for the job? It is true that, technically, there is a one year trial period before someone becomes a fully-fledged civil servant, but have you ever heard of anyone not passing? I for one haven’t.

Yet the institution and, worst yet, manner of acceding to it, still exists. An enigma more puzzling than the look on the face of Lady of Elche statue, whose blank stare rivals any civil servant about to take their break. Not only is it an extremely ineffective way of vetting candidates for jobs, but it is also one of the main factors that contributes to the temporality culture of the Spanish labor market. Many blame the country’s heavy reliance on the agriculture and service sectors for this problem, and they are somewhat right, but what they overlook is that the public administration is in fact more to blame than the private sector.

You can ban bullfights, repeal the bandos de silencio (edict banning excessive noise during siesta hours), prohibit paellas, bankrupt Real Madrid and forbid vacations in August and you would still have a country with a recognizable identity. But drag the medieval oposiciones and figure of the funcionario (civil servant), kicking and screaming, into the 20^th century, let alone the 21^st, and I wonder what we would find? Surely something even better than what we have now. 

Are We There Yet?

In this week's Camino a Ítaca I'm reminded of the perseverance of some of my brave, female students in Yemen. If they could, I can. Click over to read the original in Spanish or the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo). 

Standing in front of a new class is always somewhat nerve-wracking, especially if it’s in a new country. Looking out over a class and seeing fifty percent of your students with curved daggers tucked in their belts and Kalashnikovs carelessly slung on their shoulders like handbags, while the other half are swathed head to toe in black with their faces completely covered, with only their kohl-outlined eyes to latch on to, means taking this disquiet to an entirely new level. This was my day-to-day experience while teaching English in the only coed school in the Yemeni capital of Sana’a.

The sight was also an explicit metaphor. Even if many of the machine guns were held together with duct tape, the message they conveyed was clear. Power dictates who wears the mask and who doesn’t. There was no explicit law stating that women had to cover their faces in public and, unlike in neighboring Saudi Arabia, there wasn’t a law mandating that women had to cover their hair in public. Yet the majority still do. This message of subjugation was more a cultural phenomenon than political or even religious, even if exegetical attempts are made to justify it using the latter.

My challenge as a teacher was to recognize and differentiate between my masked students. The dehumanizing mask and veil is meant to render women invisible, but even under these difficult circumstances, they were able to pronounce their individuality, albeit subtly. These courageous women saw this rare crack in the stratified social conventions of the region as a possible outlet towards a better future and if it meant covering up to appease social conventions, then so be it.

At first it was near impossible to tell them apart but after time I began to notice the smallest of signs beyond the outline of the kohl around their eyes. Subtle, yet powerful statements that silently cried out, ‘this is me.’ It might have been an inconspicuous arabesque on the hem of their abaya or an almost imperceptible design on the edge of their niqab, but it was just enough to distinguish themselves amongst the rest. The mask may have covered them from view but it couldn’t erase who they were.

I had often thought of these women over the years. I will always remember their determination to learn and their certainty that learning was the key to their future. They have also come to mind whenever attempts around Europe arise to ban burkas in the public sphere. It’s only recently though that I have thought about them almost every day.

I think of them as I pant my way up hills, gasping for air as I near the top. I’m reminded of them as I pass by people that I know in the street without recognizing them and saying hello. Each time my glasses fog up and I have to stop to clean them before looking out at a class where everyone is now wearing a mask, they come to mind.

I relive their determination and their resoluteness, no matter the obstacles in front of them. And then I put my mask back on, keep climbing the hill and think, just a little while longer now.