Stories

There is something rather revealing about the questions students ask when they are struggling. Not the questions they ask because a teacher has invited them to participate, or because an examination requires a response. I mean the other questions. The ones that emerge when the books are closed, the classroom is quieter, and a student finally admits that something isn’t quite making sense.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“How do I get better?”

“How do I even begin?”

I have spent enough time around students to notice that, beneath many of these conversations, there is a remarkably persistent little word: how.

The extraordinary life of an ordinary word

The word how does a remarkable amount of work for its four letters. It can be scientific, philosophical, practical, emotional and occasionally exasperated. How does gravity work? How do people decide what is right? How can a poem make us feel something
we cannot quite explain? How does one get through Monday?

It is a word that refuses to stay in one subject.

Why, on the other hand, can be a rather complicated business. Why did I fail? Why can’t I understand this? Why does this keep happening? Entire afternoons can disappear into the business of asking why, occasionally with very little to show for it.

How is different. It does not necessarily promise an answer, but it suggests that a way forward might exist. How do I approach this? How might I see it differently? How can I make sense of something that currently feels beyond me?

And there, I think, is an important distinction between education that delivers knowledge and education that develops a learner. One gives a student something to know. The other helps them discover what they can do with
not knowing.

The question grows up

Consider a child in the Early Years Programme (EYP), watching a puddle disappear after a morning of sunshine.

“How did the water go?”

A perfectly reasonable question. Also, potentially, the beginning of a rather substantial investigation into evaporation, temperature, observation and the behaviour of matter. The child, of course, may simply want to know where their puddle went. One need not introduce the water cycle before breakfast. But something important has begun. The child has noticed something, found it puzzling and wanted to understand it.

Move forward a few years into the Primary Years Programme (PYP), and the questions begin to connect. How does water move through our environment? Who has access to it? What happens when communities do not have enough? An observation has become an inquiry. The child is beginning to see that the world is not organised into separate school subjects, however convenient that arrangement may be for timetables.

In the Middle Years Programme (MYP), the questions become more analytical. How does a photograph influence what we believe? How does a society decide what is fair? How can the same event be understood differently by different people?

And then comes the Diploma Programme (DP), where students encounter the rather uncomfortable but intellectually rewarding possibility that understanding something is not always the same as agreeing with it.

How does a writer construct meaning? How does language shape identity? How do we know whether an argument is convincing, or merely sounds convincing? How might two opposing interpretations both reveal something worth considering?

The questions have grown up. The curiosity has not disappeared.

This is what I find particularly compelling about the IB continuum. EYP, PYP, MYP and DP are not simply four stages in which students accumulate increasingly difficult content. They represent a progression in how young people engage with knowledge: from noticing, to investigating, to analysing, to evaluating and creating.

The curriculum does not merely ask students to know more. It asks them to think differently.

Reading between the lines. And sometimes, between the words.

As an English Language and Literature teacher, I have a particular fondness for the question how. It is, after all, the question that makes literature interesting.

A student reading a novel might identify a character as lonely. That is a reasonable observation. But how does the writer make us feel that loneliness? Through the setting? The dialogue? The absence of dialogue? Perhaps the character is surrounded by people but never quite belongs to the room.

Now we are getting somewhere.

A metaphor is no longer simply a metaphor to identify. It becomes a way of understanding how language makes an abstract experience tangible. A narrative voice is not merely a technical feature. It determines whose story we hear, whose version we trust, and whose experience might remain outside the frame.

Even silence becomes interesting.

What is left unsaid? Why does it matter? Who benefits from that silence?

These questions take students beyond reading for information. They teach them to read for intention, implication, perspective and power.

And once students begin noticing how meaning is constructed in literature, they become better equipped to notice it elsewhere: in advertisements, political speeches, social media, and the everyday language through which people persuade, include, exclude, exaggerate and occasionally tell the truth.

The world, it turns out, is rather full of texts. Some simply have better punctuation than others.

The business of not knowing

There is an odd assumption that a good student is someone who knows the answer. I have always found this definition a little limiting.

A student who knows the answer may have remembered it, understood it, or worked it out. All valuable things. But what happens when the answer is unfamiliar? When the problem has no obvious solution? When the first attempt fails?

This is where learning becomes interesting.

A student who can recognise a difficulty, identify what they need, reconsider their approach and seek help is developing something more enduring than the ability to complete a particular task.

They are developing agency.

And agency is not the same as independence in the sense of never needing anyone. It is the ability to take an active role in one’s own learning, including knowing when to collaborate, when to question and when to begin again.

Students do not leave school and enter a world that politely arranges its challenges according to the chapters they have completed. They encounter uncertainty, contradiction, change and other people, with entirely different ideas about how things ought to work.

A curriculum that makes room for inquiry, reflection and different perspectives is not making learning less rigorous. It is preparing students for the kind of thinking that cannot be rehearsed in advance.

What happens when how becomes who?

The most interesting transformation, however, may be less visible. A young child asks how something works. A PYP learner begins investigating how ideas connect. An MYP student examines how meaning is constructed. A DP student evaluates how knowledge is produced, interpreted and used.

But somewhere along the way, another question develops.

How do I respond to the world around me? How do I use what I know responsibly? How do I disagree without dismissing someone? How do I recognise when I am wrong? How do I contribute something worthwhile?

These are not questions that belong to a particular subject or assessment criterion. They emerge when learning begins to shape the learner.

At Raya, the IB framework provides the structure for this progression, while the idea of Find Your Flow recognises something equally important: children do not all arrive at their potential by following identical routes. One might discover confidence through a scientific investigation. Another through a
performance, a sporting challenge, a literary interpretation or an idea pursued long after the lesson has ended.

The point is not to make every student good at everything. That would be an exhausting educational ambition, and probably an impossible one. It is to help each student discover what they are capable of, while developing the intellectual and human capacities to engage with what lies beyond their immediate strengths.

A question worth carrying

I often think that the real measure of a student’s learning is not how quickly they can answer a question, but what happens when they cannot.

Do they withdraw? Wait for someone else to think for them? Or do they become curious enough to investigate, patient enough to reconsider, and confident enough to try?

There is no curriculum that can guarantee a life without difficulty. Nor should that be its ambition. What education can offer is something more useful: the knowledge to understand, the language to articulate, the judgement to evaluate and the confidence to act.

And perhaps, above all, the ability to keep asking. Because the child who asks how a puddle disappears may one day ask how a society changes. The student who learns to question a writer’s choices may eventually question the assumptions shaping their own world.

The subject matter changes. The stakes become greater. But the intellectual instinct is recognisable.

I think that is what makes the question how so powerful. It does not simply seek an explanation.

It opens a relationship between the learner and the world — one built on curiosity, possibility and the willingness to look again.

A good education does not teach a child to have an answer for everything. It teaches them how to meet the things they do not yet understand.

And that is a rather good place to begin.

A student answers a question correctly in class. They remember the concept, explain it well and score high marks in an assessment. But ask them a question they have never encountered before, one that has no clear answer, and the challenge changes.

They have to make sense of what they know, consider different possibilities and decide what they believe. They may even have to question something they were previously certain about.

This is where an important part of education begins.

In a world where information is readily available and answers are only a search away, knowing facts is no longer enough. Students need to learn how to question information, recognise different perspectives, evaluate evidence and form their own conclusions. These abilities take time to develop, and the classroom plays a significant role in shaping them.

The question for educators is worth reflecting on: are we giving students the space to think for themselves?

It begins with the questions we ask

Think about the questions students encounter every day. Some have straightforward answers. Others invite discussion, challenge assumptions and lead to further questions.

Both have their place in learning. The difference lies in whether students are also given opportunities to explore beyond what they have been taught.

In the Primary Years Programme (PYP) at The School of Raya, a student's observation can become the starting point for an inquiry. Something as simple as noticing a change in the environment can lead to questions, investigation and new discoveries. As students progress into the Middle Years Programme (MYP), they are encouraged to examine problems from different perspectives and consider the reasoning behind their responses.

By the time they reach the Diploma Programme (DP), these conversations can become even more complex. In Theory of Knowledge (TOK), students examine how knowledge is formed, what makes evidence convincing and how our experiences influence what we believe to be true.

A discussion that begins with "What do we know?" can lead to a far more challenging question: "How do we know that what we believe is true?"

Questions like these encourage students to look beyond the immediate answer and examine the thinking behind it. They also help students recognise that changing one's mind in the light of new evidence is a strength, not a weakness.

Learning to think takes practice

Critical thinking is often discussed as an essential skill for the future. In practice, it develops through the everyday experiences of learning.

It develops when an experiment produces an unexpected result and students have to work out why. When a mathematical problem can be approached in more than one way. When a discussion introduces a perspective they had not considered. Or when a project does not go as planned and they have to rethink their approach.

Consider a science experiment. If the result differs from what a student expected, the immediate temptation may be to look for the correct answer. But there is value in pausing first. Was an assumption incorrect? Did a variable change? Is there enough evidence to explain the result? What would happen if the experiment were repeated differently?

The same process takes place across other areas of learning.

In the arts, students make choices, interpret ideas and learn to explain what informs their work. In sports, they assess situations, respond to changing conditions and adapt their strategies. During community projects, they may discover that a solution that seemed practical in the classroom does not address the needs of the people involved.

Each experience asks students to draw on what they know and decide how to use it. It also teaches them that mistakes, unexpected outcomes and changing direction are part of the learning process.

These are not always easy lessons. They are, however, valuable ones.

In the arts, students make choices, interpret ideas and learn to explain what informs their work. In sports, they assess situations, respond to changing conditions and adapt their strategies. During community projects, they may discover that a solution that seemed practical in the classroom does not address the needs of the people involved.

Each experience asks students to draw on what they know and decide how to use it. It also teaches them that mistakes, unexpected outcomes and changing direction are part of the learning process.

These are not always easy lessons. They are, however, valuable ones.

Making room for different perspectives

One of the challenges of teaching students to think independently is allowing room for answers that may differ from our own expectations.

When students believe there is only one acceptable response, they can become more concerned with getting the answer right than with understanding the question. They may hesitate to share an idea unless they are certain it will be well received.

A classroom that welcomes discussion creates a different experience. Students can disagree, question an argument and explain why they see an issue differently. They also learn to listen to others and reconsider their own positions when the reasoning or evidence calls for it.

At Raya, TOK discussions offer opportunities for students to engage with questions that do not have easy or universal answers. The conversation becomes as much about the reasoning behind a position as the position itself. Students have to consider what supports a claim, whether the evidence is reliable and how another person might interpret the same information.

Student exhibitions offer a similar opportunity. Whether presenting an inquiry or sharing the outcome of a project, students have to communicate how their thinking developed. What did they set out to discover? Which decisions shaped their work? What changed as they learned more? What would they do differently next time?

These reflections help students become more aware of their own learning. They begin to recognise not only what they have learned, but also how they arrived there.

The role of the educator

Creating this kind of learning environment requires educators to be thoughtful about when to explain, when to guide and when to let students work through a question themselves.

There are times when students need direct instruction and a clear explanation. There are other times when the most useful response is to ask a follow-up question.

"What makes you say that?"

"What evidence supports your view?"

"Could there be another explanation?"

"What might change your mind?"

Such questions encourage students to explain their reasoning rather than simply state a conclusion. They also communicate something important: their ideas are worth examining, and they are capable of doing that examination themselves.

This does not mean leaving students to figure everything out independently. It means providing the right guidance while gradually building their confidence to make decisions, question assumptions and take responsibility for their thinking.

For educators, this also calls for patience. Independent thinking does not develop overnight, and it cannot be measured through a single assessment. It becomes visible over time, in the questions students ask, the connections they make and the way they respond when something challenges what they know.

Preparing students for questions we cannot yet predict

We do not know exactly what the world will look like when today's students enter university, begin their careers or take on leadership roles. New technologies will emerge, established industries will change, and the problems they face may be very different from those we know today.

What will remain important is their ability to make informed decisions, distinguish evidence from assumption, work through uncertainty and consider the consequences of their choices.

At The School of Raya, this is an important part of how we think about learning and the development of our Rayots. Academic knowledge matters, but so does the ability to apply it, question it and connect it to the world beyond the classroom.

We want students to leave school with the confidence to ask questions, the discipline to examine evidence and the judgement to form their own informed perspectives. We want them to be comfortable enough with uncertainty to keep exploring, and open-minded enough to recognise when another perspective has something to teach them.

Perhaps the real measure of learning is not simply whether a student can answer the questions placed before them today, but whether they have developed the curiosity and confidence to engage with the questions that lie ahead.

That is the difference between learning answers and learning to think. And it is a distinction that deserves a place at the heart of education.

When I think about what makes a school truly good, I do not think only about lessons, results, events, or classrooms. All of these matter, but a school is ultimately shaped by people: how we speak to one another, how we respond when someone needs help, and how we work through challenges together.

I believe there are four essential things that bring out the best in any school community: respect, empathy, collaboration, and follow-through. They sound simple—and perhaps that is the point. The most meaningful values are often simple to understand, but require real intention to practise every day.

Respect is not just a word, idea or rule

Respect should be the foundation of every interaction. Respect is not about agreeing with everyone all the time. Schools are full of different personalities, ideas, concerns, and opinions. Naturally, there will be moments of disagreement. But even in those moments, people should feel that they are being spoken to with dignity.

When adults speak calmly, listen carefully, and avoid making others feel small, students notice. They learn from us—not only from what we teach in class, but from how we treat one another in hallways, meetings, parent conversations, and difficult situations. A respectful school culture tells every person: “You matter here, even when we need to have a difficult conversation.”

Empathy makes guidance meaningful

Empathy is not about avoiding rules or being too soft. It is about pausing before we judge. A student who is quiet may be anxious. A child who is angry may be struggling to express something. A parent who asks many questions may simply need reassurance. A teacher who seems frustrated may need support too.

Instead of asking only, “What went wrong?” we can also ask, “What might this person need right now?”

That small shift can change an entire conversation. It helps us guide people with care rather than assumptions, and it reminds us that every behaviour has a story behind it. Children especially need this. They are still learning how to name emotions, manage conflict, and make sense of the world around them. They need adults who can guide them without making them feel ashamed for struggling.

Collaboration is better than blame

A school works best when no one has to carry a concern alone. Teachers may notice changes in students first. Parents understand their children beyond the school day. Coordinators and leaders help connect people and create systems. Counsellors and wellbeing professionals offer specialised support when needed.

Each role is important, but none should be expected to solve everything alone.

When a challenge arises, the aim should not be to find someone to blame. It should be to understand what happened, identify the support needed, and decide what can be done next. Collaboration turns difficult moments into chances to learn and improve.

Care needs follow-through

Helping during a crisis matters, but what happens after things become calm matters too. A follow-up conversation, a check-in, or a clear plan can help students, families, and teachers feel heard rather than forgotten.

Care is not only about solving a problem quickly. It is about making sure people know they still have support afterwards.

At The School of Raya, the Learner Empowerment Hub aspires to help build this kind of culture: one where students, teachers, and parents can ask for help, receive thoughtful guidance, and feel that their concerns are handled with respect and care.

We may not be at the finish line yet, but we have already begun the journey. With time, openness, and a shared commitment from all of us, I believe we can move closer to the state of flow that we value at Raya—a space where learning, wellbeing, trust, and growth can happen together.

That is the kind of school community I hope we continue to build.

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The School of Raya is featured in The Times of India for opening its doors to the wider community through events that offer families a glimpse into its learning culture, values and community spirit.

Click here to read the news article.

“Eureka! Look what I found, Miss! It is the Indus Valley Zebu Bull!” exclaimed one excited learner, holding up a newly discovered artefact.

“I’m not able to find the Sphinx, Miss. This is very frustrating, and I’m tired,” shared another learner, visibly worn out after searching for the artefact without success.

These were just two of the many moments that made our MYP 1 archaeological dig site activity memorable. As part of our Individuals & Societies unit, What Can We Learn from Different Civilisations?, learners stepped into the shoes of archaeologists, getting their hands dirty as they excavated, observed, and documented their findings of artefacts from the past.

As their Individuals & Societies facilitators, we paused the activity and invited the learners to reflect on something we often take for granted: the time, patience and effort involved in archaeological discoveries. We spoke about how our knowledge of ancient civilisations has been shaped by archaeologists who painstakingly excavate sites, document their findings and piece together clues left behind by people who lived thousands of years ago. Without their work, our understanding of the past would be far more limited.

The learner who had been frustrated by the elusive Sphinx was suddenly re-energised. With a renewed sense of purpose, they returned to the excavation, ready to try again. 

Through this invigorating activity, our MYP 1 learners at The School of Raya explored how we can reconstruct the past when we cannot travel back in time? Rather than beginning with a textbook or a list of historical facts, learners stepped into the role of archaeologists. Working in teams, they explored an excavation site designed to introduce them to the methods used to uncover and study evidence from the past.

Each team worked with a designated excavation area and carefully established a grid using labelled stakes and twine. This introduced learners to the importance of mapping and recording the precise location of archaeological finds. Equipped with soft brushes and small trowels, learners carefully excavated their assigned squares. The excitement of calling out “Eureka!” when an artefact was discovered added to the sense of adventure. 

However, the activity was about much more than finding objects. The most meaningful part of the experience came after discovery. Learners were encouraged to move beyond simply identifying an object and begin interpreting what it might reveal.

They considered questions such as:

• What does this object suggest about the daily lives of people in the past?
• What materials or techniques might have been used to make it?
• What can its location tell us?
• Which conclusions can we draw from the evidence, and what remains uncertain?

These questions introduced learners to an important distinction in historical inquiry: the difference between an observation and an inference. While an observation describes what we can see, an inference is an interpretation based on the available evidence.

Through the activity, learners developed a foundation for investigating ancient civilisations such as the Indus Valley, Mesopotamia, Egypt and Greece. They began to understand how material remains can provide clues about technology, craftsmanship, trade, settlement patterns and everyday life. An object that might initially appear ordinary could offer valuable insights into the knowledge, creativity and priorities of the society that produced it. A meaningful example is the Code of Hammurabi, an ancient Babylonian law code inscribed on a stone stele. At first glance, it may appear to be just a stone monument covered in writing. However, it reveals that the Babylonians developed a written system of laws to regulate society, resolve disputes and establish punishments for different offences. For instance, the principle of “an eye for an eye” reflects how punishments were linked to the nature of the offence. 

The archaeological dig supported the development of several important learning skills. Learners practised research and inquiry by asking focused questions and investigating evidence, while observation and interpretation enabled them to record details accurately and draw evidence-based conclusions. They developed critical thinking by distinguishing between what the artefacts revealed and what they inferred from the evidence. Through teamwork and shared responsibility for the excavation, learners strengthened their collaboration skills. Finally, by documenting their discoveries in field logs and explaining their interpretations clearly, they developed their communication skills

The archaeological dig was a reminder that meaningful learning often begins with curiosity. A grid of soil, a carefully uncovered object and a series of questions became an opportunity for learners to investigate the past using the methods of historians and archaeologists.

After all, every artefact has a story to tell. The challenge is learning how to uncover it.

Recently, in my Grade 9 Chemistry class, we were exploring the real-world impact of mining. We had arrived at this discussion on our quest to understand the world of elements and our study of the Periodic Table. As we explored both the advantages and disadvantages of mining elements for our gadgets, technologies and industrial needs, someone quipped, “A disadvantage would be increased greenhouse gas emissions due to mining machinery.” Almost immediately, another voice followed: “Yes, that means global warming!” And right on its heels came a loud blurt from across the room: “Arctic ice melting!”

Then, just as quickly as the ideas had tumbled out, the classroom fell still.

The connections seemed to settle in. One idea had led to another, and suddenly the consequences of mining extended far beyond the mine itself. Then, from one corner of the room, came a gentle question:

“Does that mean we are mining for precious elements in the Arctic?”

And there it was, the moment when a chemistry lesson stopped being just about elements and the Periodic Table. It became a question about the world around us.

This, among many other ways, is the power of learning in an IB context. Concepts and theories taught within different subject disciplines take on centre stage roles when students are given opportunities to connect them with the real world. Through case studies, newspaper article analysis, industry expert talks, field visits and even model Shark Tank sessions, learners encounter real-world, real-time situations that invite them to ask questions, make connections and consider the impact of what they are learning.

Some lessons begin from the lens of a real-world situation and then work backwards.

‘What is happening here? Why is it happening? What do we need to understand to explain it?’

The direction of learning shifts. Instead of beginning with a concept and asking students where they might use it, students begin with real world scenarios that exist and discover the concepts they need to understand it.

There are moments when this leads to something quite powerful—an epiphany. In the Chemistry classroom I began with, my students began to see that Chemistry is not confined to formulae, symbols and the pages of a textbook. The elements they study are part of the technologies they use, the resources societies depend upon, the environmental challenges communities face and the choices that shape our future. My students didn't need to be told that mining connects Chemistry to climate, geography, technology and sustainability—they discovered the connections themselves.

They begin to see why what they are learning matters.

In effect that is the full-circle moment, real world impacts around us impact the ways in which we learn and what we learn, in turn, helps us make better sense of the world around us.

Cox_skates is undefeated, top of the leaderboard; in real life, he's never once stood on an actual skateboard. Hand him one, and he lasts about four seconds before gravity takes over!

It's a strange little contradiction, but it's not really about skating. It's about two very different things that both feel like knowing how to do something until one asks which one actually holds up once the screen is gone.

In the language of learning research, this gap has a name: surface learning versus deep learning, first described by researchers Ference Marton and Roger Saljo back in the 1970s. Surface learning is about reproducing something: the fact, the move, the correct answer; "knowing" it well enough to recognize or try repeating it. Deep learning is about actually using the "understanding" to build it into something one can use: adjust, explain, apply somewhere new, do it again under pressure. Both can look identical from the outside. Only one of them survives contact with reality.

Recognizing the right answer is cognitively lower order. Our brain barely has to work; it just matches what's in front of us to something familiar. That's what the screen skating game gives us: the feel of mastery, minus the actual physical effort of falling, wobbling, catching yourself, falling again. Real skating asks our body to build balance the slow way, through failure. The screen game skips straight to the reward.

"Winning" in the screen game means timing the button press. "Winning" on real skates means our body learned to balance, to fall well and overcome fear. Same word — completely different thing being measured.

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I often see students describe this with honesty, if you listen attentively. When a child is asked to explain/write out their thinking, rather than just pick the right answer, and you'll often hear some version of: ahhh!! no!! it's a lot… It hurts my brain. That's not a complaint to brush off, it's an accurate report. Writing, explaining, and working something out from scratch are what researchers call "generative" acts. One has to produce the thought themselves, rather than just recognize it. That's genuinely harder. The discomfort during generative tasks isn't a sign something's gone wrong. It's a sign that real work is happening.

This shows up well past academics, too. A young dancer can watch a routine once and describe every step back perfectly and still stumble the moment she may have to actually perform it, because naming the steps and performing them physically are two very different things. A student can hum a melody back note-for-note after listening to it once, and still be nowhere close to actually playing it. In every one of these, there are two things that feel like competence: recognizing what mastery looks like, and being able to produce it on one's own, in real situations. Only the second one is real.

Today, answers, techniques, "how it's done", are all one search away, in a form fluent enough to feel like understanding. It isn't. It's familiarity showing up like understanding.

It takes a bridge to move from knowing to understanding and “effort” is that bridge. Crossing it feels uncomfortable, even like failing, at first. But it's persistence that carries one across, until what once felt shaky starts to feel like solid ground.

That's the whole difference between Cox_skates and a real skater. It's just about the will to try, fall first and get back up, which, it turns out, is most of what learning looks like!

“Oh! You’re a teacher! You must be so serious and strict!” These are words I hear whenever I meet someone new. I never know how to explain this in words, because if one hasn’t been on this side of the classroom, one cannot fathom what it truly means to be a teacher.

What I’d like to tell them is that to be a teacher is to be a fool.

You have to realize that you’re not teaching English, or math, or science, or economics, or DP or MYP. You are teaching someone’s child. You’re teaching their hope, their life.

You have to realize that “doing well” doesn’t mean scoring 99% or an A or behaving perfectly. It means having small ‘light bulb’ moments in class when their face and eyes light up because they have finally understood something. It means old students telling you they remember your subject years after you’ve stopped being their teacher. It means seeing your students do better and bigger things than you. Those are moments when the teacher earns an ‘A’. 

Indeed, a large part of being a teacher is being foolish. You have to be foolish enough to believe in each and every child that can learn, despite what anyone says. Foolish enough to know that learning comes in waves for some, smoothly for others. For some, it may even come in the last week you have them in your class. Foolish enough to show the child you believe in him/her, even when they have lost faith in themselves. Foolish enough to teach the same topic differently. Through words, pictures, videos, activities or even stand-up comedy and speaking gen-Z vocabulary, internally celebrating the moment when finally something clicks.

WHY? Because unless the teacher leaves the ‘throne of knowledge’ and comes down to the learning level of the child, true learning can never happen. From the throne, we can only look down upon others, we can only judge them, we can only feel superior. When you sit beside the child, we become equals, we can actually see them as individuals, experience their struggles, feel their frustrations and fears. From the throne, we can only show “You must be like me”, sitting beside them, you can say “I also feel scared, unsure and lost at times.”

Yes, this means that many times you have to let go of the lesson plans, deadlines and assessments. You may not have the ‘pin-drop silence’ class from the 1980s where everyone gives the right answers and takes beautiful notes. Your class may have a sort of organized chaos. To someone walking past your class, it may look like mayhem mixed with indiscipline. But the reward is that you get to laugh with the child placed in your care, know what they love, empathize with them, even cry with them! You get to know them as people!

To the teachers who can make a fool of themselves in the eyes of the bystander, I say, you will always win. Because you have found that the key to a child’s mind is to unlock his/her heart and free their spirit.

May we all be able to stop and breathe and reconnect with the child within us. May we be brave enough to make a fool of ourselves for a moment, laugh freely at ourselves, apologize genuinely when we make mistakes, look deeply at a child so they feel truly seen, acknowledged and valued. Because to be a teacher is to be a fool… a hopeful fool!

“The greatest lesson in life is to know that even fools are right sometimes.”

Winston S. Churchill

Nobody has ever thanked me for a bus that arrived on time.

That isn't a complaint. It's the job. Most of my work only becomes visible when it fails — the washroom that isn't clean, the jersey that didn't arrive before the match, the first-aid kit that was short of something. When it goes right, it disappears. A student walks through an entire school day without once having to think about how any of it got there.

I've come to believe that disappearing is the point.

The morning before the morning

By the time the first students arrive, a fair amount has already happened.

Transport is usually first. Routes, timings, a change in a family's pick-up point, a driver caught in traffic, a parent who needs to know where the bus has reached. A bus arriving safely and on schedule looks like the most routine thing in the world. Making it routine is not routine at all.

Then the campus has to be ready. Housekeeping, security, facilities, the cafeteria, the infirmary — each team has its own morning, and a lot of my job is being the thread between them. Someone has to notice the thing that would otherwise be nobody's particular responsibility. Usually that is me.

Procurement is not shopping

The largest part of my week is getting things to the people who need them.

It rarely looks the way people assume. A teacher raises a requirement. We find suppliers, ask for quotations, compare them, check the specifications against what was actually wanted, get approvals, place the order, and then follow it through production and delivery until the thing is physically in the right hands.

Sometimes that takes a week and goes smoothly. Sometimes stock runs out, the requirement changes halfway, the timeline shortens, and the plan I made stops being useful. That is the part of this work I have had to learn — not how to follow a process, but what to do when the process no longer fits.

What I notice now

Working in administration has changed what I see when I walk across campus.

A clean washroom. A stocked first-aid kit. A uniform available on the day a student needs one. A certificate printed correctly. A visitor guided to the right place instead of left standing in a corridor. A team that has the equipment it was promised.

None of these matters much on its own. Together they are most of what it actually feels like to be in a school.

So a good part of the job is simply looking. Listening when somebody mentions something in passing, before it becomes a complaint. Asking whether a thing that has always been done a certain way is still the right way to do it.

An event is the same job, compressed

A field trip, a sports fixture, an inter-school competition. To a student it is one day. Underneath it there is transport, timings, permissions, food and water, equipment, security, housekeeping, communication, half a dozen vendors, and a plan for what happens if any one of those falls through.

Then something falls through anyway, and you deal with it while the day carries on around you.

The satisfaction comes from watching students enjoy something with no idea what it took. That is not a small feeling. It is the entire feeling.

Why I think this counts as teaching

Here is what I have slowly worked out.

A student who has to wonder whether the bus will come, whether the equipment will be there, whether the room will be usable, is spending attention on things that have nothing to do with learning. Attention is finite. Every question we answer before anyone has to ask it is attention handed back.

That is what the work is for. Not tidiness. Not efficiency. Concentration.

When teachers have what they need, they teach. When transport runs, families begin the day without anxiety. When the campus is ready, a student's whole attention is available for whatever they are actually here to do.

None of it shows up anywhere. It isn't meant to.

That is the reason to do it carefully.

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