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Journalism of Courage
During the pandemic, one of the things that troubled me was that I could not hear children’s voices. My children have grown, our centre was closed, as was the park in front of our house — I was surrounded by too much adultness. It was as if I was living in a post-Pied Piper world of silent dreariness. Now that the world has opened up again, the constant hum of giggles, squeals, chattering have come back to add music to our life. As I walk through the noisy park, I am no more in a tearing rush to clock in my steps. I pause, I loiter on the grass with a silly grin and watch little ones giggling, squealing, chattering, pushing, jumping, and I feel our world is back on its axis again.
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I wonder if the so-called Great Pause, amongst other things, also made us reflect on how we see children, what they bring to our world and how we can honour their voices. So I went about asking children I met some questions – what do you think adults do not understand about children? What is it that you would want them to know? I have tried to give shape to their answers, some in their words, some translated into mine and some echoes of what I have been hearing from them for years.
Our life is not just a preparation for adulthood
“Children are like products on a factory assembly line, being prepared for the market,” said a 16-year-old as he explained to me how from the time they are little, children’s life is about preparation – from preschool to school to college to job market. The threat of the looming future with the metaphorical chiding of “pull up your socks” at every step. “Isn’t it a tragedy that what adults miss most about their childhood is what they rob us of? Why is everything we do, what we eat, what marks we get weighed in terms of the benefit it would have in future?” His remark reminded me of philosopher Alexander Herzen’s remark, “Because children grow up, we think the child’s purpose is to grow up. But a child’s purpose is to be a child.”
We are also figuring out life as we go
These words were by a 13-year-old as she explained to me her experiences during the pandemic. She had witnessed a lot of violent fights between her parents at home. She had learned to pick up the warning signs and would quickly get her little sister and lock the door of the bedroom. From singing songs, dancing, drawing and reading together, she had found small and big ways to keep herself and her sister safe. I remember another 10-year-old sharing with me, “When my father starts shouting at me in rage, I take myself away from the situation by closing my eyes and repeating Kali mantra so that I am watching without watching.” These responses go against the popular idea that children are like clay, waiting to be moulded. Their actions of survival reminded me, once again, how significant it is that we acknowledge that children are not passive recipients of hardships, and they are trying to “figure out” life in so many creative and innovative ways.
Work with us and not against us
A 14-year-old was referred to me for so-called “anger management”, commented, “It is as if all the adults are in constant battle with me, picking on smallest mistakes I make. Why don’t they see I am also hurting!” When children do not fall into the socially prescribed narrative of “good kids”, we try to fix them by criticising, blaming, and shaming them. They resist it by withdrawing or fighting back. We react immediately by censuring their “bad behaviour” and get locked in a battle where there are no winners. The only way out of this deadlock is if we take a position of compassionate curiosity, “What hurt is the anger protecting? What does it say about what is precious to this child?”
Our stories matter
The way we talk to our children becomes their inner voices; the way we talk about them becomes their life stories. We make sense of our world through stories; they give meaning to our experiences. They not only describe us, but they end up shaping us too, as through these stories, we start building our identities. Language is the thread that creates these identities. If you go back to your own childhood, what words were used to describe you? Think about a person who saw in you what others ended up missing. It could be somebody whose eyes lit up every time you entered the room and who always found wonderful things to say about you. How much of who you are is shaped by what that person believed about you? How would you want your children to remember you one day?
We will get there
“Every child wants to do well. Nobody wants to mess up their lives. We will get there one day, whatever that ‘there’ is.” These words by a 15-year-old made me think of our compulsion to see childhood as a training ground for adulthood. Have you seen or played the game of bowling? The player grips the weighted ball and puts all the force into flinging it down the alley to knock down the standing pins. Now there is another game popular in Canada, called curling, where a stone is set to motion on ice, but the most critical part of the sport is that as the stone gains speed, the sweepers in the team, in a very Zen-like way, clear the pathway, removing friction, for it to gain momentum. I see the contrast in these two sports as an elegant metaphor* for parenting/teaching/working alongside children. In the former approach, there is an immense force applied to push the child, in the belief that this is the only way they will move forward. In contrast, the latter is all about the mindful and skilful clearing of their pathway and having the faith that they will get there. Wherever their preferred “there” is.
*Acknowledgement to the narrative therapist, John Winslade
Shelja Sen is a narrative therapist, writer, co-founder, Children First. In this column, she curates the know-how of the children and the youth she works with. She can be reached at shelja.sen@childrenfirstindia.com
