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In the fall of 2002, Chandler-Gilbert physics faculty member Dr. Robin McCord joined GateWay mathematics colleague, Dr. Shahin Berisha, on a visit to Kosovo as part of a State Department funded grant at Arizona State University's Russian and East European Studies Consortium (REESC). This project has supported faculty exchanges between ASU/Maricopa and faculty from the University of Pristina. In this article, Robin shares some experiences of her visit.
"Those soldiers, look what they have done for us," my guide said in halting English, pointing to the bombed shell of what had once been a prosperous shoe factory. "Only a few years ago, we had 350 factories in Kosovo -- now nothing."
We were driving from the airport to Kosovo's capital city of Pristina. Fields that should have produced crops or pastured herds of cows and flocks of sheep were now brown graveyards for abandoned and burned tanks. It soon became obvious that some tanks had been parked as close to homes as possible in futile attempts to confuse bombers or, as some have accused, to target civilians.
The war that has stripped so many factories has decimated hospitals, two-year colleges, and universities. Essential equipment was taken by Serbian militia and sold for parts or salvage, and what couldn't be removed was destroyed -- like an angry child that can't bear to leave a toy for anyone else.
A Kosovo "playground"? |
The higher education system in Kosovo faces an awesome task of not only educating a workforce for technologies that other eastern European countries took for granted a decade ago but teaching for peace as well. In a country the size of Kentucky that was once industrially and agriculturally stable, 70% of the population is unemployed. University deans take home $265 a month; instructors make $135 a month. It's not unusual for university personnel to have two or three jobs simultaneously and make more at the non-academic positions -- not much of an incentive to go to work everyday.
The University of Pristina must have looked much like any bustling American mid-western campus in the early 90s -- modern block and glass architecture interspersed with greenbelts and parks. Now the campus, which also contains the Kosovo National Art Museum, could pass for the set of some Hollywood movie after an apocalypse. Few buildings have complete sets of windows, which now, is actually a good thing because there is no electricity the majority of the time. Small gasoline generators supply power to critical campus areas, and the fumes must be vented. The few bathrooms on the entire campus are without water but are in constant use.
The National Art Museum now houses a student ceramics display. You can see the display by getting a custodian to open the building, providing you've remembered your flashlight.
Everything in the University of Pristina science laboratory is guarded and kep under lock and key. The most recent publication is from 1987 |
Despite the hardships of no heat, no electricity, few books (mostly what can be copied at local print stores), a handful of computers, a complete lack of laboratory equipment in the science labs, and a physics department library that keeps its journals (1980s mostly) under lock and key, there is a great sense of optimism.
Since the end of the 1999 Kosovan War, the educational community, with international assistance, has attempted, with varying success, to encourage moves toward reconciliation and a peaceful future. The mission statement that hangs at the entrance to the physics department office reads simply, "Science for peace and human rights." It was this sense of optimism that greeted our party of educators from Arizona State University and Maricopa Community Colleges. From the Rector (President of the University) to the students, everyone expressed immense gratitude that American professors would come so close to winter, with (what we considered to be meager) supplies to lead workshops.
The four-day computer workshop for 10 mysteriously bloomed to 25 in a matter of minutes. The fact that there was no electricity for the computers most of the time, or we ran them on power from extension cords plugged into a Honda generator chained to an unused radiator in the outside hallway, was seen as a mere inconvenience.
These instructors ("faculty" refers to buildings there) and the graduate students were being groomed to fill decade-old classroom vacancies that resulted from the arrest, deportation, or exile of the previous qualified instructors, many of whom retired or were too old to return.
Students at work in the computer lab, some holding up their LEE CDs. |
American education was being shared. The participants were amazed at the concept of collaborative learning. The idea that each person could make a contribution, not just those at the top of the hierarchy, was a revelation. They especially liked putting colored sticky notes on big pieces of flip chart paper taped to the walls. In fact, at the end of the workshop, one older faculty member was preparing to hide the chart paper tablet under his coat. We gave it to him, along with the extra notepads.
Hybrid learning was completely exotic since the only way to access the Internet, aside from the few functioning PCs left at the University, was to sit in a smoke-filled Internet cafe during the odd hours when electricity was available or find a cafe that had its own generator. Using SPSS (Statistical Package for Social Sciences) and other software packages was beyond almost everyone's experience and the fact that almost everyone suffered from information overload by the end of the workshop bothered no one. American educators had come.
Chandler-Gilbert had sent with me a dozen folders containing brochures, pens, pencils, and pads of paper -- typical PR materials for us. At the University of Pristina they were valuable office supplies that were locked up each evening after the workshop. Perhaps the most important thing we left behind was a CD ROM available to every campus in the District: "Learning English Electronically (LEE)." These disks became highly coveted and would sometimes tragically go missing overnight from the classroom. One such loss almost reduced one older professor to tears. He wanted to improve his English so he could visit America before he died. Kosovars believe that improving their English (taught in public schools starting in the early grades) is the key to improving international relations that will bring more jobs and industry to their country.
Group photograph of University of Pristina workshop participants |
At the end of the workshop, all 25 students crowded around their instructor for a group picture. As they were getting into place, they were already making plans for ways to continue working with their American counterparts -- how soon could we come back? Was there any chance they could come to the U.S.? They would practice their English so they could visit someday. Finally everyone was posed and those that had the highly prized LEE disks held them up proudly. The Dean of the School of Economics, who was on hand for the end of the workshop, looked at the group, turned and said, "Those American teachers, look what they have done for us."
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