Last week a 10th grade student in a private school in Lahore was beaten to death by his teacher for not learning his lesson properly. The boy’s father was called and informed that his son had died, but it was from the other students that he found out how.
When the boy didn’t recite his lesson, his teacher angrily punched him around his head, grabbed his hair and threw him against a wall, where he kept beating the boy until he fell unconscious. The school principal intervened after the collapse and sent the boy to the hospital.
Quite simply, the child was murdered. Moreover, he was murdered at the very institution and by the very guardians his parents had trusted to keep their boy safe. There is a flurry of attention on the matter: reports that the teacher had been fired before, accusations of a systematic problem with corporal punishment, neglect, child abuse.
The tragic event has spotlit what is – and if we are honest – has always been one of the biggest problems with child care in Pakistan: that you think you can hit kids without consequences.
I was put into one of Lahore’s private schools when I was six. The first thing I remember about that awful place was that within minutes of class after the first bell, I witnessed a woman grab a six-year-old by the head slam it into the blackboard again and again. I would quickly learn that this was commonplace – teachers slapping kids with a quick backhand for little more than a punctuation error, or else routinely threatening physical violence. One of them used to delight in taking off her diamond rings when she was angry: her cruel hint that a beating was coming. But beatings were not for everyone.
The first time I was up for a slap, the whole class had been in trouble. We were in third grade, probably no more than 7 or 8 years old, and 30 of us were asked to line up at the teacher’s desk. She took out from her desk one of those useless old wooden rulers that had a blade embedded in one side to cut paper. She used the sharp side on the kids’ knuckles. One by one I got closer and closer to my own painful turn. I was terrified, not only because I knew what was coming but because I also knew enough to realize this should not be happening to kids. By the time I arrived in front of her, she surprised me by holding my chin in her hands and smiling widely. She told me how fair I was, and how long my eye lashes were, and then with an indulgent chuckle patted me on the shoulder to go back to my seat, my knuckles untouched. The next boy wasn’t so lucky, and it was my first real experience with the how racism, skin colour and class can determine punishment – despite the pretense that none of them should.
But I used it all – my long eye lashes and fair skin and fluency in English. I used it all because a small but clever part of me realized I’d be far less likely to be beaten up if I did. The fear of pain because of inadequacy is something I carried with me for years, so I can only imagine what it was like for kids who were routinely beaten (every teacher had their favourites). By the mid-1990s the school got a new Principal, who made a big show of his policy to police corporal punishment in the classroom. What he actually did was to reserve it only for himself.
Fast-forward through the decade of other traumas and we get to what remains my enduring memory of that school and that man. Everyone was at morning assembly when the principal announced that a senior boy had been caught driving outside of school – contrary to the Principal’s own policy. That the boy was of age, had a learner permit and was driving his parents’ car didn’t matter, only that the Principal’s edict had been disobeyed. What he did next was disproportionate and unforgivable. The boy was marched to the middle of the stage, where he was told to bend over a chair. An attendant scurried up and handed the principal a large, thick cane. He swung it back in an exaggerated arc as if he were paying golf and brought it swinging down on the boy’s backside. He began crying after the second thwack. We stood there for twenty-five.
Our children get beaten up because our culture makes it OK to beat them. You can blame British colonialism or your parents or even your misplaced toxic views on gender roles. Frankly I don’t care what excuses you come up with to justify it. It doesn’t matter. Pain doesn’t make “a man.” Physical abuse doesn’t make people stronger.
If you, like the teachers in this column, think that your authority comes from the fear you cast over a child, then you shouldn’t be allowed near one.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
When the boy didn’t recite his lesson, his teacher angrily punched him around his head, grabbed his hair and threw him against a wall, where he kept beating the boy until he fell unconscious. The school principal intervened after the collapse and sent the boy to the hospital.
Quite simply, the child was murdered. Moreover, he was murdered at the very institution and by the very guardians his parents had trusted to keep their boy safe. There is a flurry of attention on the matter: reports that the teacher had been fired before, accusations of a systematic problem with corporal punishment, neglect, child abuse.
The tragic event has spotlit what is – and if we are honest – has always been one of the biggest problems with child care in Pakistan: that you think you can hit kids without consequences.
I was put into one of Lahore’s private schools when I was six. The first thing I remember about that awful place was that within minutes of class after the first bell, I witnessed a woman grab a six-year-old by the head slam it into the blackboard again and again. I would quickly learn that this was commonplace – teachers slapping kids with a quick backhand for little more than a punctuation error, or else routinely threatening physical violence. One of them used to delight in taking off her diamond rings when she was angry: her cruel hint that a beating was coming. But beatings were not for everyone.
The fear of pain because of inadequacy is something I carried with me for years, so I can only imagine what it was like for kids who were routinely beaten
The first time I was up for a slap, the whole class had been in trouble. We were in third grade, probably no more than 7 or 8 years old, and 30 of us were asked to line up at the teacher’s desk. She took out from her desk one of those useless old wooden rulers that had a blade embedded in one side to cut paper. She used the sharp side on the kids’ knuckles. One by one I got closer and closer to my own painful turn. I was terrified, not only because I knew what was coming but because I also knew enough to realize this should not be happening to kids. By the time I arrived in front of her, she surprised me by holding my chin in her hands and smiling widely. She told me how fair I was, and how long my eye lashes were, and then with an indulgent chuckle patted me on the shoulder to go back to my seat, my knuckles untouched. The next boy wasn’t so lucky, and it was my first real experience with the how racism, skin colour and class can determine punishment – despite the pretense that none of them should.
But I used it all – my long eye lashes and fair skin and fluency in English. I used it all because a small but clever part of me realized I’d be far less likely to be beaten up if I did. The fear of pain because of inadequacy is something I carried with me for years, so I can only imagine what it was like for kids who were routinely beaten (every teacher had their favourites). By the mid-1990s the school got a new Principal, who made a big show of his policy to police corporal punishment in the classroom. What he actually did was to reserve it only for himself.
Fast-forward through the decade of other traumas and we get to what remains my enduring memory of that school and that man. Everyone was at morning assembly when the principal announced that a senior boy had been caught driving outside of school – contrary to the Principal’s own policy. That the boy was of age, had a learner permit and was driving his parents’ car didn’t matter, only that the Principal’s edict had been disobeyed. What he did next was disproportionate and unforgivable. The boy was marched to the middle of the stage, where he was told to bend over a chair. An attendant scurried up and handed the principal a large, thick cane. He swung it back in an exaggerated arc as if he were paying golf and brought it swinging down on the boy’s backside. He began crying after the second thwack. We stood there for twenty-five.
Our children get beaten up because our culture makes it OK to beat them. You can blame British colonialism or your parents or even your misplaced toxic views on gender roles. Frankly I don’t care what excuses you come up with to justify it. It doesn’t matter. Pain doesn’t make “a man.” Physical abuse doesn’t make people stronger.
If you, like the teachers in this column, think that your authority comes from the fear you cast over a child, then you shouldn’t be allowed near one.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com