Students

School hallways are noisy. So much simmers in those corridors during breaks, and even more seems to ferment in teachers’ lounges, in the spaces of our schools as a whole. One might call it a festival of unresolved relationships, one that struggles to keep pace with the relentless pressure of coexistence, confrontation, and interdependence. By the end of a school day, we often stand slightly hunched, worn out, with restless legs that refuse to find stillness.

Amid this disorder, schools often become arenas of fear, environments where anxieties are not merely tolerated but systematically nurtured. These fears dance unseen and unchecked while the guardians of order, the teachers and educational institutions stand by as mere spectators. But what if this breeding ground of fear is not simply the result of carelessness or overwhelm, but rather the consequence of constant monitoring, control, and evaluation?

In my own school days, things were not so different. Students were expected to know little, challenge nothing, provoke no one, and certainly not disrupt. Teachers, on the other hand, constantly provoked, carried their small scandals into the school and sometimes even into the classroom. They unsettled us, and when we went home after school, we had little to report. Math, German, English, sports—subjects isolated from one another. Even the teachers lacked unity; how could the subjects possibly converse?

I remember a history teacher who filled gaps in knowledge with half-truths about controversial topics, as though he were a chronicler from another era. His stories brought the past to life, yet within the fog of his legends, the facts remained hidden. In math class, so-called wisdom from “great thinkers” was often reduced to hollow phrases—”Einstein probably said something like this.” These words sounded clever but were no more than glittering packages. In physics, correlation was sold as causation, “The moon and bad weather? That can’t be a coincidence!” Stereotypes were used so liberally that distinguishing between reality and fiction became a challenge.

In sports, fear was a constant companion. Our physical education teacher constructed scenarios of dread, “No training? That could lead to serious long-term damage!” The art teacher presented false dichotomies: “Either you draw like Van Gogh, or not at all.” Where were the nuances? Where was the space for creativity and individual thought? The music teacher, meanwhile, sought constant excuses to shield herself from constructive criticism: “It sounded fine, didn’t it? The acoustics were just bad.” The pursuit of excellence seemed replaced by a need for approval.

Parents observed this strange game, unfolding beyond grades and lesson plans, a struggle for “the best” for their children, though it was unclear what that even meant anymore. The best opportunities, the greatest potential, the most tailored support, concepts they discussed without ever fully grasping, haunted by the question of how much of their desires were genuine and how much were projections of societal expectations.

Children sensed what adults dared not articulate — that this was as much about demands as it was about support. What simmered here weighed on all of us, a pervasive burden whose origins no one could pinpoint but whose presence was undeniable.

This was a time when sports and music icons of the 1990s sparked cultural revolutions. With their bold hairstyles and extraordinary performances, they left powerful impressions that extended far beyond their fields. They influenced not only fashion and trends but also the values and norms of an entire generation, embodying success, individuality, and determination. Yet the school corridors simmered. A cacophony of invisible tensions echoed between the walls, while the daily routines left unspoken feelings like a tangled web between teachers, students, and parents.

Parents understand that children learn as much about social dynamics in school as they do about academic content. The lessons taught in classrooms are only a fraction of the school’s essence. It is the interpersonal relationships and encounters that leave lasting imprints, shaping self-worth. Sadly, this invisible yet essential layer often remains untouched and unformed. Students seem to be molded into compliant chess pieces in the game of knowledge dissemination. But what of their independence, their ability to express themselves, their courage to be authentic?

“Tell me how you speak to my child, and I will tell you who you are to them.” Language shapes our self-perception, and this is especially true in schools. The way a teacher speaks to students often reflects how they perceive their relationship with them. Are the words mere rhetorical phrases repeated out of habit, or is there genuine dialogue? Students are perceptive, quickly recognizing whether a teacher’s words make them feel valued or dismissed.

When communication is honest and direct, it creates a space where students can trust that their thoughts and feelings are welcome in school. Sadly, this is not always the case. Too often, we encounter linguistic “theater tricks,” half-truths, exaggerated dramatizations, or the subtle construction of false dichotomies, “Either you understand it, or you just don’t have what it takes.” Language, however, could serve a different purpose, reducing fear and building authentic connections.

The days of teachers as untouchable authorities, almost divine in stature, are over. This venerable role, where educators not only imparted knowledge but also moral judgments and ethical frameworks, has been increasingly supplanted by social media. Today, it is platforms and influencers, not teachers, that shape the values and norms of our students. Algorithms and digital streams dictate what is right and wrong, eroding the teacher’s role as a moral compass.

When I ask educators, “What do you think was truly happening then, and is it definitively different today?” I rarely receive a clear answer. Perhaps the point is no longer the answers but the questions themselves. Asking the right questions is a form of resistance in this era. Questions that inspire rather than inflame, that touch rather than coerce.

The fear of new technologies like artificial intelligence (AI) may be significant, but the greater threat lies in the erosion of human connections that should form the bedrock of education. True education requires profoundly personal and meaningful relationships, not just to address technological challenges but to renew and solidify the interpersonal foundations of teaching and learning.

Children are acutely sensitive to language. They are deeply aware of repetition, which is why rituals carry emotional weight. As adults, especially in classrooms, how we speak to them matters immensely. Every word, every gesture reflects what we hope for them and believe in them. Relationships cannot thrive in utter chaos; they falter when they cannot take root in fertile ground. We must create spaces where these relationships can flourish, enabling genuine connections and fostering a positive learning environment. It takes courage to step into these spaces of vulnerability and to cultivate an atmosphere where students not only learn but also experience what it means to be part of a community. Every child has the right to sovereignty over their feelings and their story, and these spaces should be defined by openness and respect.

The future of education lies in empowering these voices, breaking rigid structures, and rethinking what is possible. As educators, we must rise to the challenge of creating spaces of vulnerability where students can safely express their fears and hopes, fostering an environment where learning is not only possible but joyful. By engaging in true dialogue, we can transform the corridors of our schools from places of fear into spaces of growth and understanding.

Only then can schools become what they were meant to be, vibrant places of learning where every person, regardless of their background or history, has the opportunity to thrive and find their voice. In honoring children as autonomous beings with their own stories and inalienable emotions, we unlock the fundamental relationships that make learning meaningful and transform schools into places of deeper humanity.