National Unity with 3B

In the dark, dank classroom of 3B, I stood in the middle of two lines of students whose shadows had blocked out the rays of the morning sun. We were doing an activity called "Cross the Line", and it was my third Civics lesson with them. It was only 2 weeks ago when the school timetable changed again; I walked into the class for the first time this year and introduced myself to them as the brother of a girl who shares the same age as them. I wondered, then, if that fact intrigued them as much as it caught me. During that first class, they requested that I teach them English instead of 'boring Civics'. Encouraged by their love for the language, I told them I'd try to do both as their new teacher.

I understood their dislike for Civics – it’s not a ‘main subject’ -- and in the bigger scheme of things, not as important as English. Still, I relished the change of teaching something different, something less ‘academic’. Today’s lesson on national unity was going to involve an activity inspired by the movie “Freedom Writers”, and I wondered how everything would pan out eventually, as I stood in the centre of the classroom, under the gaze of 35 pairs of young eyes.

"For today's Civics lesson, we will play a simple activity called ‘Cross the Line’. There are only two rules to this activity: firstly, that you must be honest to yourself, and secondly, that you must remain absolutely silent and respectful towards the others who are obeying the first rule."

I warned them that the activity would get increasingly challenging as it went on, but assured them that nothing was going to compel them into responding to the statements except for their own honesty. I told them that this activity had a purpose, and that we would talk about the lesson of the day at the end of it.

And so, we began.

As I read the statements, pockets of students made their exodus from one end of the classroom to the other, crossing an imaginary line at the centre. There were beaming faces, cheeky smiles and muffled whispers. The statements were neutral at first, and my students had no problems owning up to them by ‘crossing over’.

 "I have two parents"

Everyone rushed through the rows of tables and chairs to reach the other end.

"Sometimes, I hate coming to school"

A few boys gleefully ran across the classroom.

But soon, the statements became a little more difficult.

"I've seen fights that happened before my eyes"

"I've witnessed a friend being bullied terribly"

And they became more personal.

"I’ve been bullied”

"I've been betrayed by someone I trusted"
"I've seen my mother cry"

There were less people crossing the imaginary line now, as were the smiles.  I felt a lump in my throat as I braced myself for the next few statements: 

"It's difficult at home, because we don't have enough money"

A pause – and then about 20 students moved.

"I've watched a loved one die"

5 shocking students paced across the room, as their classmates looked on.

Suddenly, I realized that no one was smiling anymore. An unusual hush had fallen upon the same classroom that been so accustomed to being the place of teenage jests and loud chattering.

I cleared my throat and told the students that the next statement would be difficult to say and even more difficult to admit to, but there was no compulsion to cross the line if they felt uncomfortable to do so. And then, I read it:

"I've been abused"

A moment of hesitation elapsed. Then a girl, with pain all over her face, took a small step towards the other end of the room. A handful of other students followed her and broke away from their lines, walking silently. Never had I fully realized how far away my home was from this place, till then.

I instructed them to return to their seats, and as the students moved away from the windows, the classroom seemed brighter than before. How did a topic like national unity relate to what we had just done? How could one of the vaguest, most politically-contested terms in our national discourse possibly be taught to a group of 15 year-old students, whose solemn faces betrayed their own individual stories of pain and loss?

How could I prove to them that despite what our parents, teachers and media have been showing to us, we are truly the same: a people? That beyond the politics of race and colour, the different cultural norms we were born into and the diverse mind-sets we were raised to hold, we are simply and merely humans in need of each other and a Creator, and nothing much more? And that because we are inherently the same – broken – we should be a little more humble about who we are and what we deserve?

I couldn’t. And so, Pain became the teacher for the day, reminding us that we aren’t so different after all, that despite the innumerable variations between us, we have more to gain by being united and empathetic -- than being comfortable in our own isolated shells of familiarity and apathy. That’s where national unity starts: looking beyond our own walls of differences and serving others.

Maybe Civics isn’t going to be so ‘boring’ after all.