Little Einstein

As the school year comes to a close and most expat women take the children to greener pastures, the grapple for nursery places is at a high in Abu Dhabi before the wild birds flee.     Unlike Ireland where children start nursery at the age of “whenever the government provide the free year” and big school at five,  children in the Middle East, start nursery just around the time that they begin to melt mommy’s brain being at home all day and big school starts from three years old.

Being Irish and inherently against anything that could compromise the suffocating relationship between an Irish Mammy and her only son.   So while all the other nationalities are busy developing their sons sense of independence and responsibility, this Irish Mammy is galvanizing her sons grasp on the apron strings.   I use the term apron strings metaphorically, as microwaving noodles does not warrant the use of an apron.   Despite the deeply ingrained mindset, it is difficult to turn a blind eye to even the possibility of letting baby boy experience a world outside of Mammy and so just to prove a point (I am open-minded, I am open-minded) I decided to have a look at some of nursery school options available.

Metaphorical scissors in hand I took to the highways and dirtracks of Abu Dhabi to find a nursery competent of offering my messiah stimulating surroundings for his first break from Mommy’s apron.   Little Steps, High Hopes, Little Treasures, Baby Acorns and many more English managed but Pilipino run nurseries dotted the dusty landscape of the grid like Khalifa City, my equivalent of the local village.    

Taking a punt on the first one, Little Einstein’s, a suitable title I thought, particularly for the intellectual direction my cherub was obviously headed.    On further investigation it transpired that the promoted atmosphere in this playing and learning environment was silence.   Hush signs decorated each and every wall and low voices and hushed tones filled the silent play areas.  This would suit, I envisaged my baby becoming a Zen like-child, happly playing with his battery free xylophone while I rested on the chaise reading a book, no TV, no noisy interactive toys, no happy laughter but no constant whinging either, I was willing to compromise.  All seemed serene until my beautiful nightmare decided to have a full on throw down tantrum,  the hush signs shuddered on the calming apple green walls, the serene atmosphere punctured by the spoiled screams of my expressive little boy.   The teddy which lay just inches away from over the knee high partition in the “sleepy zone” was really eons away from my restless boy.    We’ll will call you ma’am should a vacancy arise was the line delivered by the obviously irritated assistant, and so, for the want of a teddy that place was lost.   The tumbleweed rambled across the car park of the nursery which was at atmospheric as the interior; we needed something a little more tolerant.

Potential nursery option two and the entrance to “Happy Playtime” had lots of potential, Laugh, Play, Chatter, Learn, were the words shown on the walls.  This was a good start.   The theme here was that all activities play and learning was child-led.  So whatever the children showed interest in, that’s what was promoted and developed, no set structure.   Letting my former Einstein join in with the activities, I stood beside the play attendant and we both observed his play technique.  Through this ten minute exercise we could determine the play area to which my baby was most suited.  I stood proud, waiting for him to make towards the jigsaws and stacking blocks,  however, he passed these out and apart from kicking two saucepans of his way, he showed no interest in the play kitchen either.   He headed in the direction of the books, my clever boy, I could have sworn he was about to reach for the Osborne Children’s Dictionary when his attention turned to a plastic red bucket.    He placed the bucket on his head and proceeded to walk around bumping into things.   “This is good ma’am he is playing” went the sing song voice of the Sri Lankan room assistant.   

The other options included a nursery with his being the only child without “Al” in front of his surname. An Indian owned nursery full with cash registers and toy shops, and many English nursery schools with non-English speaking assistants and large sleep areas.   I put the scissors away until an Irish Naionra arrived in Abu Dhabi, the apron strings were well and truly knotted.

High Hopes

Education for your children is possibly one of the most significant issues to consider when living as an expat in the Middle East.   Quite often it is the point that forms the essential part of the argument on whether people stay or go.  The focus on education may be particularly heightened for expats in the Middle East, who without their third level qualifications would not be eligible to live in the UAE and therefore would be forced to stay home and possibly unemployed in Ireland.   So it is understandable that people hone in on education and as all English speaking schools are private, the quest to find a school that at least lives up to its astronomical costs is ongoing.

My mind cast back to my own education, whilst I didn’t have the social standing of attending a private school or college, I did however, leave the public system with the academic standing to be able to proceed further in academic circles, I could have gone on to do law or medicine, if I wasn’t so interested in live music gigs and weekend long concerts.  The teachers by and large were in it for the long haul and not one of them enrolled to teach in the city technical college with a view of leaving after two years and going back to west cork with a suntan and a smile and a photograph of themselves sitting on a camel.

Annual school fees for one child in English speaking school in Abu Dhabi is c. 55,000 Dirham’s, equivalent to Eu. 11,000. This invoice along with growing unemployment rates in Ireland, tend to awaken ones interest in schooling and the curriculum.  In the past, my involvement with our school in Ireland was mainly, buying tickets for a fundraising fashion show and signing the homework journal which I never read, so assured was I in the competency of the Irish teachers and education system and furthermore so delighted that it was all free.   Moving to the Middle East and forced into private education, the term fees and my hopes, were high.

Forfeiting the Junior and Leaving Cert for SAT’s and GCSC’s, was strange and the loss of Geography and History at primary level was another hit, no Battle of the Boyne, no Salmon of Knowledge, no idea where the Coomeragh Mountains were, or where the Shannon estuary began, all things I had imagined my children would learn.  All this being said, life had to go on with or without the mountain ranges of Ireland and we headed into the British system with gusto.    Determined to understand the system fully and take advantage of the private school benefits, small classes and state of the art school surroundings with no discipline issues, has to be good, right? 

The parent teacher meeting proved a sole-destroying exercise as I got the feeling that each of the twelve teachers I met across primary and secondary, were enjoying their twenties living the dolce vita in Abu Dhabi for a couple of years but unfortunately for moi, they weren’t bringing anything to the table only a suntan and a whiter than white smile, full of inexperienced enthusiasm.     Keen not to fall into the trap of taking these fresh faced graduates at face value, I looked for the proof of the pudding in my daughter’s copybook.  I found was a myriad of information and a new strange language for marking papers, which I’d never heard before.   “www”,  what went well,  “ebi” even better if, these abbreviations along with many others, were dotted here and there, making it impossible for me to determine, at a glance.   The cleverly devised marking and assessment numbering system that appeared on the report card, again ensured that the parents would be given no insight into their child’s progress leaving the teacher staff well and truly covered.  My personal favourite however was when I saw a child’s writing across my daughter’s homework essay, with comments, like, “very good”,  “good sequencing”,  unless the teachers were getting younger there was something awry here.  Questioning my daughter, who promptly told me that this exercise was “pa” peer assessment.  Now pardon me, but if I’m paying for a service, a service I expect to be provided by qualified UK and English speaking teachers, I do not expect my daughter’s homework to be corrected by twelve year old Fatima, who has a “One Direction” pencil case and speaks broken English as a second language.   All I can say to that is, “ipft” I’m Paying for This?!

School Fees

On reflection, the single most thing I took for granted when living in Ireland was free primary and secondary education.   Yes, zilch, nada, nothing.  As an English speaking Irish person living in the Middle East with two school going children I can certify that paying for education puts a whole different tint on the things when you’re child comes home from school with a paper mache creation in one hand and an invoice equivalent to € 2,500 for upcoming term fees, in another. 

At the moment there are approximately four well-recommended and reputable English speaking schools in Doha, the criteria of evaluation would loosely be set out as follows, how long has the school been established?, How many English / western teachers are there in the school?, What is the nationality mix in the school?  Like most things some are better than others and some are just more expensive than others.  Incidentally there are no facilities and the main English speaking schools refuse to take children with learning disabilities such as dyslexia, dyspraxia, ADHD etc.  With school fees for one child costing approximately QR. 35,000 ( 7,000 Euro) and some schools having up to a thousand pupils it makes for a very lucrative business with a gross annual turnover for c. 35 million Qatar Riyals and all with 8 weeks off in the summer.  So in the role of paying customer as opposed to loyal patron, my expectation is on the increase, as are the school fees.  The further up the education ladder you , the higher the charge, so the fees for a year 8 student will cost about 10% more than those of a year 7 student.  These tuition fees do not cover the cost of books, or any ancillary costs such as transportation, school outings etc, so all in all it costs in region of “a lot” to educate your children in the Middle East. Some might argue the point that spending your school years in a multi racial school and having an understanding of life in various nations around the world is invaluable but I can confirm that while the value is yet to be calculated the cost is there in black and white.

So you can imagine my annoyance when I’m on the phone to a friend in Ireland and she rambles on for over 15 minutes about the cost to send her little Einstein to primary school, she itemized the school uniform costs, lunchbox, schoolbag, € 30 Public Liability Insurance, € 54 euro for workbooks and readers which all adds up to yes, “damn all” for a good education with a teacher that understands your child’s background and your child can see her face.  Tired of the conversation and trying not to have an argument with my oldest friend,   I sidestep the subject of education and open up the conversation to social matters as I deliver, “So, how was your weekend” “Do anything nice?” “Oh yes”, she replied and went on to tell me that they went to a new tapas bar  this train didn’t suit me either as I was slightly jealous that she had that opportunity and was still complaining about the cost of education, when she ate and drank the cost of a year of her child’s education in just two hours.   However, tales of tapas didn’t last long and minutes later she was back on about the cost of children’s school shoes and uniforms.  Suitable sickened I reminded her that it could be worse,  she could be living in a different country and forced to pay for education,  she quickly reminded me that it wasn’t easy living in Ireland these days, I gave up, I told her she really was a saint and I didn’t know how she was handling it all.

I understand that the economic situation is dire but for crying out loud when something is working well for the most part, don’t tear it apart at the seams looking for flaws. Keep it in perspective you’d have to put shoes and clothes on your child anyway and every time they come home with a cute finger-painting picture just be happy that it’s not an invoice.

Ignorance is Bliss

Emigrating, or thinking about it?   Well just before you pack up your every possession and hand the house keys back to AIB, be aware of the one great freebie available in Ireland.  Education.  Please note that the definition I’m using for freebie is something that doesn’t cost more than 1% of your annual salary but adds significant benefit to your life.  Primary Education, hairdressers, good shoes, well cut timeless jeans, all freebies. 
The biggest shocks to my piggy bank on arrival is Qatar are firstly that he can no longer be known as “piggy” and secondly, the cost of education.  I’m not talking about the price of a packet of 88 page copies and a scientific calculator.  Nor am I talking about a couple of hundred Euros for school books or buying the school uniform which will be the clothes on their backs for 35 weeks of the year, no  I’m talking about having to pay for a private education because the only public schools are Arabic.  So, to afford your children the privilege of being taught in an English speaking environment the only option is to pay, so on immediate arrival in Qatar the quest for the perfect school for your cherubs should begin, as mine did. 
There are almost ten English speaking schools in Doha so I thought it was just a matter of selecting the right one and dropping them off.  Not that easy it seemed, the prices varied from QR 22,000 to QR, 53,000, maybe ignorance really was bliss.  On further research I found that one of the cheaper schools had worryingly advertised “over 70% of our teachers are fully qualified”.   So the quest continued until I found the right one, mid-priced, centrally located, good selection of extra-curricular activities and the fact that this school was started by an Irish woman was indeed the cherry on top!  With much excitement and enthusiasm we arrived into the school, cash and pencil case in hand, only to be told that there was a large waiting list. There was also an assessment test, which not alone must be passed but “should be used as an opportunity to display your child’s exceptional ability, this will help with your position on the waiting list”.  As I heard the words, my mind fondly reflected on the first school days in Ireland.  A casual word to the headmaster in the local Spar secured the place and when the first day in September came all the children arrived in similar coloured uniforms, most of the books and that warm fuzzy feeling of meeting their teacher and some new friends.  I snapped back into reality when I had to pay the application fees and the assessment fees on the spot and should I be fortunate enough, they’d take the registration fees, admission fees, tuition fees and book fees if a place became available. 
In the interim home schooling was the only option our daily routine settled into a nice pattern, breakfast, books out, Math’s first, followed by lack of co-operation, next English, followed by sulking and sighing, by History and Geography, there was a full blown row underway with door slamming, tears, “I didn’t ask to be born” the lot. The kids were as bad.  I hit the school telephone number, now on speed dial, and to my delight, places had become available. Thank god for turbulent economic times and unexpected layoffs.  
The school hours were from Sunday to Thursday from 7.25a.m. to 1.25p.m.Sunday morning came and we skipped merrily into the school.  Flinging my handbag, cash cards, credit union books and two old prize bonds across the counter, I settled the fees. Relieved of every bit of cash I had and was likely to earn over the next ten years, I completed the registration.   I said goodbye to the children and I looked forward to a coffee and croissant with my new loose noose, when the receptionist called me back, “Excuse me, would you like to take the invoice for the Summer Term now, as it is almost due”,  I felt the noose tighten