In the absence of teachers, recess is permanent at a school in San José de las Lajas

San José de las Lajas/At four in the afternoon, Avenida 40 breathes a thick air in front of the Camilo Cienfuegos primary school, in San José de las Lajas. Under the thick shade of the flamboyant trees, the parents gather in front of the fence that separates the street from the interior patio. They balance between patience and frustration as they watch the children run around in an orderly manner among loose stones, puddles, abandoned backpacks, and trees with roots sticking out of the ground. It doesn’t seem like class time. There are no whiteboards or notebooks, just impromptu races, paper blocks, hide-and-seek games and noise. Lots of noise.

Among them, Marlén stands out, with her son’s uniform folded over one arm and her face tired. “When it’s not full of churre, a button is missing from the shirt,” he says, with his gaze fixed on the little boy playing on the edge of the fence. “They force him to come in the afternoon supposedly because he has classes, but most of the time they spend those two hours playing in the yard, with no one to take care of them, much less teach them.” Since last year, your son has no regular teacher. What was once routine now seems like improvisation: a school without teaching, a schedule without content.

Since last year, your son has no regular teacher. What was once routine now seems like improvisation

The surrounding images corroborate this. A grandfather approaches with his bicycle and, through the grating, talks to his granddaughter, who shows him a crumpled folder. Farther away, a mother leans against the metal and barely blinks as she watches her daughter run after a group that has turned the yard into a maze. Two children play by throwing small stones at each other, another juggles with a stick, and a teenager, with her scarf undone, kicks up dust with her shoes that are no longer so white. A few meters away, the only teaching assistant who should maintain control looks at the screen of her phone.

“Before, there were teachers in every classroom in this place,” recalls Marlén, who studied there in the ’90s. Now each day is marked by absences: lack of teaching staff, lack of teachers, lack of classes. And, meanwhile, those children who should be learning multiplication tables, spelling or reading comprehension, spend hours in the sun, in an extended recess that no parent asked for.

The school turned 70 this year. He received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the local government. But none of that prevents the scene that repeats itself every afternoon: first-class students without activities, without adequate supervision and without security. The state institution, founded in 1956 as the Eliodoro García school, today seems trapped in an indefinite pause.

A few meters away, the only teaching assistant who should maintain control looks at the screen of her phone

“In its eagerness to change everything and solve nothing, the government has already lost even the educators,” says Marino, grandfather of a fifth-grade student. He talks while waiting, bicycle in hand, for the main gate to open. “The girl has to come in the afternoons five days a week and they don’t even give her physical education. If this continues, I won’t bring her after noon anymore.”

Many relatives arrive before four. They line up in front of the metal fence waiting for the starting signal, which in theory should occur at 4:20. Although they can see and even talk to the little ones from the street, the door remains padlocked. “They make the rules on a whim, because the Ministry of Education orders it, even though not even the teachers agree,” insists Marino.

While they wait, street vendors appear with jams and sweet cookies. A mother takes the opportunity to briefly feed her daughter through the fence, who complains about the school lunch menu: “What they give here is not even good for pigs,” she says bluntly.

His daughter’s teacher, he claims, is 67 years old and at 11:00 in the morning “she can’t take it anymore.”

At the back of the patio rises the façade of the building: columns, open hallways and peeling walls. The flag seems small given the size of the problem. Where there should be books, there is disorder; where the dictation of some prayer should be heard, screams are heard. “They are trying to cover teaching with university students,” says Marisol, who now takes care of two nephews because her sister emigrated. “The few old teachers who still remain are teaching because they have no choice.” His daughter’s teacher, he says, is 67 years old and at 11:00 in the morning “she doesn’t give it any more.”

Through the fence you can see the old paint of the school mural, almost erased by the sun. “Every day comes with the story that teachers ask for parents’ collaboration,” Marisol sighs. “That means bringing brooms, floor blankets, chalk, money for the Educator’s Day party… everything.” But what weighs most on him is not the list of materials, but what he sees every afternoon from the street: “The children doing everything except studying. And in the end, there is no one to complain to.”

When the gate finally opens, the parents get to hug their children. The yard is left behind, full of dust raised by the races.