The War against Children

‘Yes, I think we can safely say we have won the war against children.’

He had just sat down, fatty jowls melting into the stiff white collar of his shirt. He looks around the room at his colleagues. They are mostly men, mostly aged fifty or over and are suitably dressed in black or dark grey sobriety. Their ties add a dash of colour against a sea of pink/white faces. The room is heavy with history; high-ceilinged with long windows letting in grey light that is absorbed by the oak panelling. There are a few women present, but they are barely visible.

Here we have the Education Policy Committee in all its drab splendour. It is the War Cabinet, the Centre of Operations. They exist all around the world. The faces will be different. The mode of dress may be less constrained. There may also be a few women, but they are still barely visible.

The fat man taps his laptop and eerie lights enliven the ghost-like faces of his fellows as their individual machines fire up.

‘Please look at this presentation that I have had prepared for you.’

A ripple of excitement trembles around the room.

‘Here are some examples of the many lovely new schools that have been built over the last few years. May I remind you that the majority of these have been paid for by private businesses or from the proceeds of selling off excess assets such as unnecessary large playing fields.’

He looks around the room for approval; which duly arrives.

‘They are very shiny!’

‘Lots of glass and natural light.’

‘Very rectangular – no space wasted.’

‘Lovely big corridors!’

Two plump, short fingered hands are held up to stop the flow. He pauses…

‘And, of course, they are all wired up for the 21^st Century.’

The fat man shines with self-congratulation.

He continues…

‘Each of these buildings is built to hold at least a thousand children. Inside they are designed so that every age group has its own area and provision is made for the gifted and talented. You will see from the specimen plan in front of you that there is also a space away from the general teaching area. This is the unit where special needs are addressed. You will notice there are no windows here – less distraction. Also, there is a room off this which most schools are calling the isolation unit, where those who have misbehaved have to spend a certain amount of time alone.’

He pauses…

‘As for behaviour, I know this is something we have all been concerned about for some time.’ 

A subdued chorus of assent arises from the screen-lit faces. A sound perhaps more akin to the clucking of hens than anything else.

‘I am pleased to inform you that the vast majority of schools have taken up our recommendations in this area. Things like the intensive use of sanctions and the creation of order for smooth running. There are many other interventions such as one-way corridors and even security guards.’

Another chorus of approval, although this had more of the sound of sheep rather than chickens.

‘Roger, could you do your presentation on uniforms now, please?’

Roger grins slyly as he clicks into his programme, and all laptops flicker with images of blazers, ties, trousers, school emblems and shoes. Roger is younger than many around him and he has that special intensity of one who knows he is going places.

He begins…

‘From the start our watchwords have always been, identification, belonging, self-esteem, fitting in, serious study, smartness, meaning business and mirroring adult achievement.’

A voice chips in…

‘And formality. Don’t forget the importance of formality.’

Roger’s thin white face sucks in on itself as he looks round for the culprit. This immediately transforms into a sickly smile when he realises these are the words of the fat man.

Roger hurriedly returns to his presentation…

‘Of course, formality. We have been requiring schools to use uniform as the first line of discipline for some time. We take the military view of how to succeed – clean, tidy, attention to detail and pride in appearance. Sanctions must be strong to ensure compliance.’

‘Excellent. Thank you, Roger. Very good work.’

The fat man rises, belly straining over trousers.

‘To conclude this meeting, I want to draw your attention briefly to the final part of my presentation.’

He pauses as if to give his audience time to gather themselves to receive his wisdom…

‘Over the years our biggest campaign success has been our ability to maintain an overwhelming fear factor in education. This we have managed by laying greater and greater emphasis on exams as the only way to achieve in life; by ensuring increasing competition and comparison at every level, and by making sure schools operate within limited budgets. Fear keeps us in the driving seat, it is our control mechanism and keeps schools compliant. Fear is our most powerful weapon.’

He pauses before delivering the final sentence. His pleasure with himself eclipses the combined glow of the assembled laptops.

‘We have won the war and are now successfully maintaining the occupation! All objectives achieved.’

He is about to sit down with as much of a flourish as a man of that bulk can obtain. When there is a cough from one of the recesses of the room. A small, grey-haired woman flutters her hand for attention like a limp butterfly …

‘What about the children? What about the teachers?’

Her voice is measured and calm, her face is barely visible in the half light.

An ungainly sound whispers through the room – a tittering derision.

‘The children, my dear lady, are exactly where we want them; as are the teachers.’

Lights go up. Laptops close. And with an expansively arrogant gesture, the fat man invites the room to empty.