Omar

In the first article of this series, I explored the Lebanese educational system, discussing its outward strengths and successes. Yet, despite Lebanon’s extremely high literacy rates (93.9%)[1], the fact remains that this is nothing but a glittering façade distracting us from an unsettling truth: the Lebanese educational system is severely flawed and outdated, no longer catering to the needs of the students and the market that will be receiving them, as is clearly represented by Lebanon’s youth unemployment rate (17.87 in 2018)[2]. Students graduate with the hopes of finding suitable and decent work, but these dreams are actually shattered as they apply for job after job with seemingly no success. The main factor undermining their efforts lies, in fact, in their education: Lebanon’s educational system, outdated and inflexible as it is, has not been providing them with the core life skills, non-formal education, and capacity-building that would foster their development as individuals and give them a competitive advantage in the market. The Lebanese educational system employs curriculums and modules that have not been changed or updated since 1998 at the very least[3]. The courses taught encompass the traditional subjects (sciences, languages, humanities…) with some schools occasionally offering art or other creative courses. The material is taught, however, by inculcation: students are expected to memorize information and score well when tested, regardless of actual comprehension. Moreover, the information given is more often than not useless in the students’ day-to-day lives and careers. For example, the same history lessons have been taught in schools since the 90s, lessons that concern time periods that no longer hold any consequence over the Lebanese society, politics, reality, economy, …etc. These classes fail to mention the Lebanese Civil War, for instance, even though this time period played a significant role in shaping the Lebanon of today. Another flagrant flaw that can be seen in the Lebanese educational system is the lack of core life skills taught. The curriculum falls short of including subjects and skills that develop the students’ minds and personalities, and help them navigate the world they live in. The material taught is strictly academic, and offers little benefit to a student’s character formation. All potential for personal growth is squashed, and necessary life skills such as communication, problem solving, decision making, leadership, goal setting, and presentation, to name a few, are often overlooked. The system focuses more on handing out unified, academic knowledge, disregarding the particularities of every personal case. Individual talents, interests and skills are thus rarely developed within the context of the educational system and formal education. It therefore comes as no surprise that this system also does not offer vocational training. Students who wish to receive such training must seek it outside their schools and educational system, having to choose between either learning a trade, or receiving a formal education, but never both. The Lebanese system does not arm its students with all the skills they would need to decide for themselves and make a career of their own. All students are usually led to pursuing the same careers, with little to no room for diversity and unconventional jobs. While on the topic of training and preparation for future careers, it is worth noting that the Lebanese system does little to offer its students orientation and counseling to guide them in their decision-making process. Students are usually uninformed on the various career options and their specifics, and stumble blindly towards the career that seems the most suitable for them. Most go on to regret their choices later on, eventually working outside their field. One practice that should be implemented in schools is shadowing, an informal way for someone to learn by observation what it is like to perform a particular job at a workplace. The Lebanese educational system is also for the most part formal, lacking non-formal education. Informal and non-formal learning can empower youth in important areas, such as social inclusion, anti-discrimination and active citizenship, as well as contribute to their personal growth. The range of initiatives and programs that fall under non-formal education (NFE) are diverse: they include literacy and basic education for adults and young people, political and trade union education, and programs for school drop outs, among others. The Lebanese system in itself offers little NFE, and most types of non-formal education are usually very exclusive, targeting specific groups such as refugees and minorities, which makes it inaccessible to a large percentage of the Lebanese. Moreover, the unavailability of sustainable and free non-formal education leads children and adolescents to drop out of formal schools to seek employment, with little chance of ever completing their educations. On the surface, all seems well: a large percentage of the Lebanese population has received some form of post-secondary education, with the number of people holding degrees of varying levels increasing. However, often brushed under the carpet are vital issues such as the student debt that is skyrocketing, the underprivileged, illiterate groups that receive no help from the government, and the ongoing brain drain that continues to claim the Lebanese youth. The situation is in dire need of fixing, but that will probably have to wait for another day. Lebanon’s leaders and politicians have more important problems to tend to, namely who gets the biggest slice of the cake. For the time being, they’ve conveniently decided to turn a blind eye to the failures of this country’s educational system, because what matters is that literacy rates are high, which means that on the surface, all seems well, and they get to avoid accountability for one more day. About the author: Lara Makhoul is a translator. She graduated with honors with a BA in Translation from the Lebanese University in 2018. She is currently an MA student in Research and Translation Studies. She occupies the position of Local Programs Officer at Crossing Borders Lebanon CBL, where she is charged with scouting potential opportunities that would help youth build a brighter future. She also works at The Language Platform, a Lebanese company that

The following is a piece of writing I actually submitted for a travel-writing contest, but I thought it was fitting to share with the readers of the Crossing Border’s blog as it is demonstrative of me as a writer crossing a few borders of my own. Writing a piece like this was a transitory experience for me. I’ve never really written creative, narrative-structured non-fiction before, so the experience of discovering how to tell a story in this way was a learning experience. I also got the opportunity to look back on something I’d experienced with my dad and recollect my memories of our trip together, reliving each moment through the writing process. I hope you will enjoy reading the following story as much as I enjoyed living it and then later writing about it. -Maya . . . My grandma mentioned once that my sister and I are incredibly different people. This wasn’t news, but the way she illustrated our differences struck a chord with me. She said if we were to each go on a hike, my sister would be the trailblazer, rushing through to the peak, where, upon arrival, she would ask “what’s next?”. I, on the other hand, would take my time, thoroughly excavating each staggering path, stopping, literally, to smell the flowers. Bearing this in mind, I went on a hike with my dad while we were travelling in Macedonia. Colour-coded trail markers with Macedonian text pointed in different directions; we had no indication of what lay ahead and chose a path at random. The hike started relatively easily but stops for water grew more frequent. At one rest-stop, I found a branch that doubled as a walking stick for which my dad teased me. The hike continued, and the trail markers were becoming less frequent. At times we doubted whether we were still on the right path. The mossy leaf-laden trail – evident of the transitioning Autumn and alluding to the oncoming winter – narrowed and became rockier, less stable, more steep, more unwelcoming to beginner hikers. Sturdy footing no longer a guarantee. Suddenly it was not so stupid to have that walking stick. We didn’t know what lay ahead. Breathtaking views of kaleidoscopic Autumn foliage? Folded layers of hills converging over a glistening lake? We had no clue. I created a small routine to keep my motivation up; I wanted to make sure the journey was just as breathtaking as the destination. So I counted 10 steps at a time. I climbed, walked, and strode, counting 1, 2, 3… 10. I observed each chalky jagged rock underfoot, noticing the thorny branches weaving in and out of my path when suddenly, snap! My makeshift walking stick snapped clean in half as the space between the sloped ground and myself disappeared. For a moment, I saw myself going over the mountain. I hit the ground and slid back down the path. The plants underneath me were dragged along and found themselves broken under my weight. I slid to a stop after desperately grappling at the loose rocks and branches nearby. I looked up to find my dad, who – forging ahead as my sister would’ve – decided to now stop for his daughter. I looked down once more before getting up, and suddenly a wondrously familiar scent wafted up from the torn greenery below me. It smelled like Thanksgiving. It was thyme. I’d never seen it grow wild before, but something about finding a familiar piece of home helped me feel some affection for the nature that had just betrayed me. Pushing forward, we finally made our way to a peak. The cuts and bruises on my arms and knees were long forgotten as the sweeping landscape unfolded before us. It wasn’t rugged or grand as some wilderness is, but it was wild and pure in a humble way. We free-climbed up the steepest parts on the way up and slid strategically close to the ground on the way down, crushing a certifiable Autumn feast underneath us as we crippled thyme coupled with the red- and black-currant berries staining our clothes. All of this was made worthwhile with that view. At the top, we found an abandoned monastery. I couldn’t help but marvel at the faded wall fresco. At the graffiti signed 1989. At the sheer fact that this holy space was here 700 years ago. After lunch and internal speculation, we made our way back down the mountain. I thought about the little discoveries that made this trip worth being a story to tell. I didn’t expect to be blown away by rolling hills when I’d seen massive mountains elsewhere. I didn’t expect to eat soggy sandwiches with my dad in our own little slice of divinity. I didn’t expect to be beaten up by nature and rewarded with humble beauty. All I knew was I wanted to tell people about this place. I wanted to tell them to take it slow, observe your chosen path with intention, and don’t forget to stop and smell the thyme. by Maya