Walk into a typical neighborhood school in Khartoum or Omdurman, and the soundscape is unmistakable. You hear the rhythmic drone of rote memorization, the scrape of wooden benches, and, occasionally, the sharp crack of a thin wooden switch hitting a palm. It’s a sound that defines the educational experience for millions of Sudanese children. While many countries moved away from physical discipline decades ago, teacher punishment in Sudan remains a deeply entrenched, controversial, and often brutal reality.
It’s complicated. If you talk to a parent in a rural village outside El-Obeid, they might tell you that a teacher who doesn't use the "mishra" (a flexible branch used for whipping) isn't doing their job. To them, discipline is synonymous with love and preparation for a harsh world. But talk to the activists at the Sudanese Professionals Association or child psychologists in the capital, and they’ll tell you a completely different story. They see a cycle of trauma that breaks spirits before they even have a chance to grow.
The legal landscape is a mess of contradictions. On one hand, Sudan signed the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. On the other, the 2010 Child Act—while technically prohibiting "cruel" punishment—left enough gray area for "disciplinary" measures to continue almost unchecked. Then came the 2019 revolution. There was so much hope that the fall of the old regime would usher in a total ban on corporal punishment. Some progress was made, but the subsequent 2021 coup and the devastating civil war that erupted in April 2023 have pushed education reform to the bottom of the priority list.
The Cultural Roots of the Cane
Why does it persist? Honestly, it’s because the Sudanese educational psyche is built on a specific interpretation of authority. There is a famous Arabic proverb often cited by parents when handing their children over to a teacher: "To you the flesh, and to us the bone." It basically means the teacher has permission to beat the child as long as they don't break any bones. It’s a terrifying level of trust.
Teachers in Sudan are often overworked and drastically underpaid. We’re talking about classrooms with 60, 70, or even 80 students. In that environment, a stick becomes a tool for crowd control rather than just discipline. When a teacher hasn't been paid in three months and is trying to teach long division to a room full of hungry children in 110-degree heat, their patience wears thin. This isn't an excuse, but it’s the reality of the systemic failure that fuels teacher punishment in Sudan.
The punishment isn't always physical, though. It’s the public shaming that often leaves deeper scars. Students are frequently made to stand in front of the class for hours or are subjected to verbal abuse that targets their family’s social standing or their tribe. In a culture where "sharaf" (honor) is everything, these psychological tactics are sometimes viewed as even more effective—and more damaging—than the cane.
Why Teacher Punishment in Sudan is Failing the Youth
The data, though difficult to collect during an active conflict, is grim. Human rights organizations like Sima Center for Women and Children’s Protection have documented countless cases of permanent injury. We aren't just talking about bruised hands. There have been reports of ruptured eardrums from slaps to the head and eye injuries from stray strikes.
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The Impact on Enrollment
When school becomes a place of fear, kids stop going. It’s that simple. Sudan already has one of the highest rates of out-of-school children in the world. According to UNICEF, even before the current war, millions of children were not in the classroom. Teacher punishment in Sudan is a primary driver of the dropout rate, particularly for boys who may choose to work in manual labor or gold mines rather than face the daily humiliation of the classroom switch.
For girls, the situation is even more precarious. Physical punishment often intersects with gender-based violence. While boys might be beaten for failing a math test, girls are sometimes targeted for "modesty" violations or for speaking out of turn. This creates a hostile environment that reinforces the idea that education is a minefield rather than a ladder to a better life.
The Brain Science of Fear
You can't learn when your amygdala is screaming. That’s the biological truth. When a child sees a teacher pick up a stick, their brain enters "fight or flight" mode. The prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for logic and learning, essentially shuts down. Sudanese educators who advocate for the stick often claim it "sharpens the mind," but the science says the exact opposite. It dulls it. It creates a generation of "yes-men" who are afraid to ask questions, innovate, or think critically. This is a massive problem for a country that desperately needs creative problem-solvers to rebuild after the war.
The Legal Battle and the 2019 Shift
After the 2019 revolution, there was a brief window where it felt like things were changing. The transitional government, led by Prime Minister Abdalla Hamdok, faced immense pressure from civil society to modernize the education system. There were circulars sent out by the Ministry of Education explicitly banning corporal punishment.
It worked—briefly. In some urban private schools, the culture shifted. Parents started complaining when their kids came home with marks. But in the "shimal" (north) and the far reaches of Darfur or Kordofan, the word of the Ministry often felt like a suggestion rather than a law.
The Role of "Khalwas"
We have to talk about the religious schools, or Khalwas. These are traditional Islamic schools where children go to memorize the Quran. They are incredibly influential in Sudanese society. In many Khalwas, the use of the "seiba" (a wooden shackle used to keep students in place) and the whip are seen as traditional methods of instilling religious discipline.
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The state has historically been very hesitant to interfere with the Khalwa system. It’s a political third rail. To criticize the punishment methods in a Khalwa is often framed as an attack on religion itself. This makes it almost impossible to implement a uniform ban on teacher punishment in Sudan that covers both secular and religious institutions.
The War and the Breakdown of Order
Since April 2023, the conflict between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) has decimated the school system. Thousands of schools have been turned into shelters for displaced people or military barracks. In the areas where schools are still functioning, the situation is chaotic.
Teachers are traumatized. Students are traumatized. In this high-pressure environment, the use of force has actually seen a resurgence in some areas as a way to maintain "order" amidst the collapse of the state. There is no oversight. There are no inspectors. If a teacher goes too far, there is often no one to complain to. The justice system is effectively paralyzed in much of the country.
Stories from the Ground
I spoke with a former teacher from Nyala who fled to Egypt recently. He admitted that he used to use a cane. "I didn't want to," he told me, "but when you have 90 kids and no books, and the kids are traumatized by the sounds of shelling outside, you use what you have to keep them quiet." This is the tragedy of the Sudanese educator. They are trapped in a system that provides them with no tools for positive reinforcement, leaving them to rely on the only thing they know: fear.
Conversely, there are the stories of the students. A 14-year-old named Ahmed described how he stopped attending his school in Omdurman months before the war because his geography teacher used to make students kneel on sharp stones as punishment. "I wasn't learning geography," Ahmed said. "I was just learning how to hate the teacher."
Moving Toward a Solution
So, how do you fix a problem that is baked into the culture and the law? It isn't just about passing a bill. It’s about a total shift in how Sudanese society views the rights of the child.
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First, the economic status of teachers has to change. You cannot expect modern, compassionate teaching from someone who hasn't eaten a full meal in two days. Professionalizing the teaching force and providing training in "Positive Discipline" is essential. Groups like the Sudanese Teachers' Committee have been vocal about this, arguing that better pay and better training are the only ways to end the reliance on violence.
Second, there needs to be a massive public awareness campaign. This isn't about "Western values" being imposed on Sudan; it's about the well-being of Sudanese children. Highlighting the success of schools that have moved away from physical punishment can help shift the narrative.
Actionable Steps for Parents and Advocates
If you are a parent or an advocate concerned about teacher punishment in Sudan, here is what actually helps:
- Documentation: Keep a record of any physical or psychological abuse. Take photos of marks and write down the date, time, and name of the teacher. This is vital for any future legal or administrative action.
- Parent-Teacher Associations (PTAs): Even in a war zone, community ties are strong. Organize with other parents to set boundaries. It’s much harder for a school to ignore a group of twenty parents than one angry father.
- Support Local NGOs: Groups like the Sudanese Organization for Development (SODO) and various local "Resistance Committees" often have educational wings that focus on child protection.
- Demand Accountability in the "Khalwa": Support the movement of modernizing religious education. There are many sheikhs who now advocate for teaching the Quran through kindness rather than the whip. Support them.
The road ahead is long. With the country currently fighting for its very existence, the issue of classroom discipline might seem small to some. But the children being beaten in classrooms today are the ones who will have to rebuild the country tomorrow. If they are raised in fear, they will lead with fear. Breaking the cycle of teacher punishment in Sudan isn't just an educational goal; it's a prerequisite for a peaceful future.
Education should be a sanctuary. In Sudan, it’s often a battlefield. Changing that requires more than just a new law—it requires a new heart for the nation's schools. We have to stop thinking of the cane as a tool of learning and start seeing it for what it really is: a barrier to the very progress Sudan so desperately needs.
The current conflict has paused many things, but it has also provided a grim "reset" button. As communities eventually begin to rebuild their local schools, they have a choice. They can go back to the old ways of the stick and the shackle, or they can build something better. For the sake of the next generation, let's hope they choose the latter.