Dear Diary,
Today was a pivotal moment for me, a day that I will carry in my heart. My daughter, Ella, approached me quietly as I was gathering my things for work. With a look in her eyes that momentarily stopped me in my tracks, she simply asked, “Dad, can I move to a different school?”
I paused, my mind racing. I inquired if something had happened, if she was experiencing issues with friends. She shook her head, uncertainty flickering across her face. I pressed on, asking if anyone had been unkind to her, but she remained silent.
That night, sleep eluded me as I replayed our conversation. The following day, I concocted a reason to visit her school. I told them I needed to speak with the administration, but my real intention was to observe the situation for myself.
As I waited in the hallway for break time, I caught sight of her. There she was, hunched by the fence with a thermos in her hands, her posture telling a story of someone who’s faced battles unseen. A group of girls passed by, giggling and jostling one another. I watched in dismay as a boy splashed juice on her blouse and dashed away, while one of the girls discreetly snapped a photo, sharing it with others, all of whom erupted in laughter.
And Ellashe did nothing. She merely pressed her lips together, as though she had become accustomed to this hurtful reality. What struck me most was the absence of other children. The adults were the ones watching.
A teacher approached, casting a glance at my daughter. I noticed how Ella continued to care, tending to the needs of others while brushing aside her own pain, as if she were invisible.
When I returned home that day, a surge of anger and sadness spurred me to write to the school. I detailed everything she had voicedher notebooks being hidden, the taunting in the corridors, the laughter stemming from WhatsApp images. Their response arrived quickly: “Don’t worry, it’s just typical childhood behaviour. We’ll look into it.” But it felt like empty words, cold and ineffective.
That evening, Ella asked me softly, “Did you think about what I said, Dad?” I nodded, assuring her that she would never have to face that place again. She didnt press for more details; she merely set her backpack in a corner and took a deep breath, almost as though she was shedding a weight she had carried for far too long.
Tomorrow, she begins at a new school. Not flashier or more modern, but one filled with warmth and understanding. A school where people look her in the eye, call her by her name, and where she wont feel the need to shrink herself to avoid hurt.
A child doesnt request a school change on a whim. When she does, its because she feels utterly spent. The true agony here lies not in the cruelty of other children, but in the apathy of the adults who should protect her.
Lets be attentive to our childrens quiet signals. Behind a simple, I dont want to go back, can lie feelings of loneliness, fear, and rejection. We must empower them to express themselves and have the courage to listen and act. Sometimes, the loudest cries come through whispers.
Let us not wait until it’s too late. We must observe, listen, and respond because every child deserves safety and compassion.
