Cultivating hope in the classroom

Jane Sahi

For the last five years a small team of the Fig Tree Learning Centre has been working in three government primary schools north of Bengaluru. We regularly visit the schools and work with the children on language and environmental studies.

Last year, we invited the 3^rd and 4^th standard children of the schools to suggest a theme for the display of books, visuals, and their own writing in the classroom. Earlier we had done displays on friendship, travel, insects, wild flowers, etc., and we assumed a similar ‘doable’ topic would come up. Imagine our surprise when the children eagerly declared that the display should be about gods and ghosts! This is a subject that is rarely included in the textbook, and yet it was clearly a significant part of the children’s lives. Further, having offered them a choice, some response from us as facilitators was demanded.

In addition to our team sharing a number of carefully chosen books (that included humour and legends) on the subject of ghosts, the children also contributed their artwork. Some wrote about their own or of others’ encounters with ghosts. The children had no difficulty in visualizing ghosts. Some wrote in detail about their habits, the sounds, the appearance, and antics and powers of ghosts. Also, the children took turns to be in ‘the hot seat’ to respond to questions from classmates about the ghosts they had so readily conjured up. In expressing their feelings and experiences, there was perhaps a process of naming and giving these often menacing characters a shape, colour, sound, and action to what had remained unsaid. In the act of sharing, there was the beginning of a sense of control and confidence that this too could be faced.

As librarians, we felt that we could not leave the subject there. It was true that in doing these activities, there was a certain light-heartedness and humour, but there was also an underlying sense of children’s vulnerability and anxiety. The question we asked ourselves was how we could share about good and positive forces without being sentimental or dishonest. On the suggestion of a friend, we turned to the book, A Kite Called Korika[1] to help children think about their own dreams and aspirations. In the story, a nine year old Yellaiah finds a kite and names it Korika, which in Telugu means ‘wish/desire.’ Yellaiah and his friends discuss their wishes – bangles for one, a full meal for another, and a schoolbag for a third. Yellaiah himself dreams of having a cycle of his own. Meanwhile, Yellaiah’s younger brother, Mallaiah, is unwell and is so troubled by his fear of death that he refuses to go out or play with his friends. Yellaiah finally foregoes his wish and along with his brother, sends a message with his kite that his brother Mallaiah may overcome his fears and play happily once more. The story of Korika does not foster illusions that something magically will resolve problems, but subtly opens an understanding of what wishes are about and that we are supported and guided by positive forces in ways we cannot always see or touch.

Then the children in the class made their own kites and wrote their wishes on them. We were surprised by their responses. Apart from one child hoping for a cycle, the other children’s wishes were often for solutions to family problems – a loan that needed to be repaid, a grandmother’s recovery from sickness, for father to find work, or a sister’s baby to learn to walk. There were also personal concerns, particularly about failure in school, one girl wished she could ‘get buddhi’, another that she should learn to read well, and yet another child hoped he would pass the upcoming exams.

The classroom can provide a safe space for children to share their fears and dreams, if they are ready to do so, through talking, artwork, role play, or writing. In writing a diary, children might share about the delight of getting a new pair of shoes, the disappointment of not being able to join a dance because the family could not afford the costume, the excitement of playing hide and seek, or the sorrow of losing a friend, the wonder of the pattern of new life, decay and fresh beginnings in Nature, or the flash of understanding something hitherto unknown. Often, these feelings come out vicariously. I remember one child with visual impairment writing and illustrating a story about the frustration of a bull until the angry creature was finally given glasses and could see the world.

The natural resilience of a child is something to be respected and nurtured. The heroes that are often presented to children are those who have defeated and triumphed through strength and physical prowess, but there is another kind of hero who does not lose hope and retains a sense of purpose even in the face of loss. The Polish poet, Anna Swirszczynska recalls her father’s tenacity and courage when his lifetime’s artwork is destroyed by bombing. The poem is entitled “He did not jump down from the third floor” and it ends with the lines:

His workshop had

no roof

no walls

no floor.

My father did not jump down

from the third floor.

My father just began all over again.[2]

All children hope in some way to be engaged, to succeed, and to feel confident in what they are doing. No child wants to fail or look foolish in front of their peers, but hopefully teachers can value hesitancy, mistakes, and tentative explorations, so that failure is not a final judgement but an accepted part of real learning. Sometimes, children give up trying to succeed when they are scarred by a negative experience where they, or their families, are blamed for their inability to learn to read or grasp a concept. Such children may remember being told that they are lazy or stubborn or just ‘dumb’. Older children who have difficulties with reading often have memories of feeling powerless or bewildered that, though they tried, they could not make meaning for themselves nor could they meet the expectations of teachers or parents. The result is that too often children give up or withdraw as far as possible from any engagement.

Displaying different children’s reading achievements on the wall for all to see may not serve as an incentive for struggling readers to try harder. On the contrary, it may cause some children to feel demotivated and give up. The classroom needs to be a place not of comparisons, but of inclusive practices. Within the classroom could children be given differentiated instruction to meet diverse needs, paces of working, and styles of learning? Can we look at ways of collaboration that allow children to contribute positively to a joint outcome, such as the creation of a wall newspaper, or following through an experiment together, or creating a drama?

As teachers or facilitators, we are not in a position to intervene directly to resolve problems of such enormity as the disastrous effects of a delayed monsoon or the flooding that happens in part because of misguided agricultural practices of monocropping or deforestation. We cannot easily solve the problems of inequity, which make some communities so vulnerable that they have little access to healthcare or even adequate shelter and nourishment. Yet, teachers can be a part of imagining and trusting that each one can contribute to make change possible by deepening an awareness of the root causes of injustice or exploitation.

There are practical ways in the home, school, and community for children to be encouraged to care for one another and act responsibly towards natural resources. Children also learn through a greater understanding of facts about our changing world. But we also need to think how children can imagine a more just and harmonious world. What, for example, are the stories that could help us all live creatively, peacefully, and responsibly?

I heard of a community centre in one of the most deprived and disturbed areas of Melbourne, which became a no-go area even for the police. The facilitators encouraged the youth of that place to make a frieze that stretched across the street. On one side, young people painted what the actual situation of that community was – the violence and danger with gangs and bullying, sale of illicit liquor and drugs, and on the other, they painted pictures of how they imagined it could be different. Imagining a different kind of future can begin to make change possible.

The question is how do we prepare children for an uncertain future without overwhelming them with a sense of despair and helplessness? How can we help children look to the future with hope, joy, and energy? How can the crises of our times become opportunities to re-think how we can share our resources?

The reality of a toxic world marred by pollution, violence, displacement, and loss is all too apparent to children. For many, this exposure to violence is sadly grounded in lived experience, but for others it is gleaned virtually from overheard adult conversations, TV, and the media. We cannot protect children from this reality anymore than King Śuddhodana could hide death, pain, decay, weakness, and sorrow from his son, Siddhartha (Gautama Buddha). Hope is not always visible; but false optimism is not helpful. Children’s trust in the world is closely related to the way adults respond to the confusions, challenges, and contradictions that are inevitably part of life.

There is a place for the happy ending, where the protagonist after enduring all kinds of terrors, trials, and tribulations is finally victorious; a time and place where dark forces are destroyed and good finally triumphs. However, we all, whether as adults or children as they mature, struggle to trust in a bigger picture and a longer sense of history that brings together the past, the present, and the future. In the book, Postcard from the Lushai Brigade by Hannah Lalhlanpuii (Penguin Random House), the author describes how the young boy’s dreams and hopes are crushed when he realizes that Au, his beloved older brother is dead. He has to face the pain of separation knowing that his brother will not return from an unjust war fought only for the benefit of the colonial powers who occupy his homeland of Mizoram.

The young boy is drawn to the place where he and his brother had shared so much and where his community believed that village heroes are “allowed to rest”. He says, “I turned my head towards the forest and listened more closely to the songs of the birds and cicadas. My brother’s spirit was in there somewhere, among the trees and the many sounds of nature … I felt the warmth of another tear … Au, I will come looking for you, every evening before sundown among the trees where the birds and cicadas sing…”

There are so many ways in the classroom and community that teachers can help children to come to know and cherish the world and to feel confident that each person can contribute something to sustain this fragile Earth.

[1]A Kite Called Korika by Sharada Kolluru, illustrated by K.P. Muraleedharan, Tulika Books, 2012.

[2] He did not jump down from the third floor’ by Anna Swirszczynska, translated by Susan Bassnett and Piotr Kuhiwczak in A World of Poetry Edited by Michael Rosen, Kingfisher, 2003.

Jane Sahi is presently co-ordinating The Fig Tree Learning Centre situated in Bengaluru North. The Learning Centre is involved in library work and supporting environmental studies. She can be reached atjanehelensahi@gmail.com.