I wrote an earlier version of this post while teaching at an international school in Khartoum, Sudan. I’m returning to it now with distance, perspective, and sadly, a clearer understanding of why it still sits so heavily with me.
At the time, I was overwhelmed by frustration.
The school operated under a PYP curriculum framework and prided itself on being “international.” There was constant talk of global citizenship, international-mindedness, and progressive values. On paper, it sounded and looked beautiful.
In practice, children were being harmed.
The culture prioritized paperwork over people. Planning documents multiplied while actual teaching, reflection, and care for children were pushed to the margins. Adults spent more time filling in boxes than observing children, listening to them, or asking hard questions about our own practices.
And the harm wasn’t abstract.
I witnessed a six-year-old child publicly shamed by his teacher. She told him he did “disgusting things” and announced that he would no longer be allowed to sit near other children. She then invited his classmates to list the things they had seen him do wrong.
Later, in a staff meeting, the same child was discussed again. The teacher warned others that he might “act innocent,” but that he knew exactly what he was doing—after only two weeks in her class.
Another teacher laughed and said that if there were ever proof that humans descended from apes, this child was it, gesturing to the size of his hands. There were giggles. No one interrupted. No one objected. I was too stunned to say anything.
The child was Black. Southern Sudanese. The tallest, darkest-skinned child in the grade. He was six years old and already being dehumanized, pathologized, and written off as the “lowest” child in the class.
This happened alongside earnest discussions about how to promote international-mindedness.
Here’s the truth I didn’t yet have the language to say clearly back then: you cannot teach international-mindedness while tolerating racism and ableism in your classrooms and staff rooms. You cannot celebrate “global perspectives” while dehumanizing the people around you. You cannot claim neutrality when harm is normalized.
Other children were treated badly too. One girl was labeled a liar. Two non-English-speaking children were seated with the “problem” students—as if grouping marginalized children together made exclusion more efficient. A hard-of-hearing child was ridiculed for not listening. Children were grouped by eye color and race in their gym class. Some Sudanese boys experienced an administrator grabbing them by their hair. Another group shared with me and my co-teacher in Year 5 that their Year 2 teacher had thrown things at them and screamed at them. My Black AuDHD child was punished over and over again for things that he didn't understand, for things he couldn't control, and for things that other (read white) children weren't punished for.
One of the most damaging ideas I encountered was the insistence on being “colorblind.” If leaders act as though color does not exist, they will never confront their own biases or the institutional biases shaping a school. Those of us who are racialized—along with our children—are not afforded the luxury of pretending race does not affect how we are seen, disciplined, or believed.
At the time, when I spoke up, I was seen as difficult. I was told my directness was the problem—that naming harm made others uncomfortable, and once even told I was a bully. But there is a difference between discomfort and danger, and power matters. When educators in positions of authority demean children or colleagues, and when those actions are dismissed or minimized, harm is normalized.
I’m sharing this now not because it’s comfortable, but because it’s instructive. I'm sharing it because many of my colleagues from that school are still working in international schools, perhaps still harming children and educators. International schools are not automatically just or inherently neutral. Progressive language does not guarantee ethical practice.
Educators cannot do this work honestly without confronting their own biases. We all carry them—shaped by race, culture, training, power, and the systems we were educated within. And unexamined bias doesn’t stay internal. It shows up in how we interpret children’s behavior, whose voices we trust, who we see as capable, and who we pathologize, punish, or write off.
Anti-racist and anti-biased are not passive identities or values we claim; they are practices we enact. If educators are not actively interrogating their assumptions, listening when they are challenged, and changing their behavior accordingly, then we are not neutral—we are complicit. In international school contexts especially, where colonial legacies and Western norms often go unnamed, failing to do this work means reproducing the very systems of racism, ableism, and exclusion we claim to reject.
Good intentions are not enough. Progressive language is not enough. Without sustained reflection and accountability, schools simply rebrand harm as rigor, order, or “high standards”—and children pay the price.
If we are serious about educating and caring for children—especially children who are Black, disabled, multilingual, or otherwise marginalized—then we have to be willing to look honestly at our institutions, even years later, and say: this was wrong.
