Islamic boarding schools have gotten more attention from the media since 2001. Perhaps, in part, because they’ve gotten more attention from wealthy proponents of Jihad as well. Like so many stories in the media, that of Islamic boarding schools has drawn on extreme examples and played on people’s fears. Like so much in life, the reality is a bit more varied and nuanced.
In March 2009, I visited my first Islamic boarding school. In Indonesia, Islamic boarding schools are called pesantren. It was an all-girls boarding school in central Java, a densely populated island in the middle of the country, where 97 percent of the population is Muslim.
I stayed with my friend Erin, who was an English teacher at the pesantren. She and I were both Fulbright fellows that school year, two among about 35, who were teaching English at schools across Indonesia from Medan in North Sumatra to Tembagapura in Irian Jaya. I stayed at the school with Erin—who slept, ate and passed most of her free time, as well as taught, at the school—for about three nights. Students ranged in age from kindergarten through high school.
My overwhelming impression of the school was one of self-discipline and cheeriness, as well as the conservative culture you might expect. All of the girls I met were very respectful and friendly. The girls prayed together, ate together, washed together, studied together. It seemed they rarely slept for more than four hours at night.
When meeting an older person, as a respectful greeting, many of the younger students would gently draw the back of my right hand to rest momentarily on their cheek, rather than shaking hands in a western manner. Some of the older girls were shy, but most of them warmed up quickly and wanted to take photos with the new outsider in their midst. Everyone seemed pleased to have an American friend visit the pesantren.
I attended several classes and was impressed by the English ability of many of the students. In general, students seemed more engaged and self-disciplined than at the Catholic high school where I was assigned to teach for the year. I had tried from the beginning of the school year to guide students at my school through the process of creating and publishing a regular student publication. Several showed genuine interest but were always investing energy in other pursuits and never managed to get the first issue, much less a regular publication, completed during that school year. The pesantren students had initiated and pubished their own glossy, bi-lingual magazine.
In one English class, students were invited to ask me questions. Some were the standard fare, such as “What is your impression of our school?” Others took me by surprise, such as “What is your greatest purpose in life?” I wondered if these 14 and 15-year-olds had already given more thought to their life’s greatest purpose than I had given mine.
At the time of my visit, students were preparing for an English competition in which their entry had to answer the question, “How do my traditions matter in a changing world?” Several students submitted thought-provoking responses, but the winner was quite impressive. Hers was a poem about women wearing the veil—wearing it proudly, growing up strong and realizing all of their own best potential as educated as well as pious individuals and members of their community.
I was not very comfortable in the veil I wore around the school’s campus, especially during the heat of the tropical mid-day; but I could hardly argue with her interpretation of herself as a veiled woman.
It’s hard to say to what degree my experience at this school was representative of pesantrens in Indonesia. I think there must be others rather like it, just as there are undoubtedly others that are more conservative, oppressive and inciteful ofhatred and even violence. During this brief visit I felt a bit relieved and encouraged about our prospects for mutually respect and understanding, as well as very privileged to be allowed the look inside their walls.
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