Gayathri Menon, Grade 11
UWC Mahindra
It was the first class of the day. On an empty stomach, with caffeine in my mug, I plopped myself down on the chair with a thud. It was the last day of the week, and the entirety of our history class was overworked and sleep-deprived. Classes had been shifted to the hall of our second residential area, called Wada 2 as our history teacher had a knee surgery that required him to stay close to his living quarters. I received the memo of the shift in location, but my sleep-deprived brain did not remember it.
Struggling to stay awake, I looked at the clock, in hopes that the empty classroom meant cancelled class today. Too exhausted to check my emails to confirm whether this was the case, I reassured myself that today's class discussion was on Indian history, a topic I considered myself well-versed in. Or so I thought.
Just then, my phone lit up. "Class in Wada 2" was splashed across the screen. I had missed twenty minutes of class. But the biggest concern was getting back to the residential area on just one cup of coffee and 4 hours of sleep. Classes had become mundane, and I was functioning solely on routine. Learning had become lost in the backdrop of IB grades, IAs, and deadlines. The only class I could catch a break in was history, I thought to myself. Right now there was nothing more to class other than jotting down notes to get scores later on.
The sun was ascending in the sky, and all I wanted was for it to set. Walking to class leisurely didn't sit right with me as I passed numerous tired yet smiling faces on my way out. My legs simply would not speed up, owing to the pain meds I take. The scenery on campus is gorgeous, and that sure helps me to get to class.
I reached the hall, and my teacher instinctively knew why I was late. You could see the sedation the pain medication has clearly on my face. The usually lively hall was dimmed by the sleepy faces and drowsy voices. The names of prominent Indian independence leaders were written on the whiteboard. What I thought the class would turn out to be was not that at all.
What I thought I knew was merely data, not history. History's subjectivity does not make it a less valid study- the first lesson I learnt in my history class.
The difference between the way history is taught in a more traditional school versus an international setting like MUWCI is large. This is why I chose to take up history at the start. But that history class made me uncomfortable.
Confronting demons of times past is a common occurrence in history. From uncovering internalized prejudices to unearthing saplings of today's conflicts, history always holds the possibility of bursting the bubble of simplicity around you. That bubble I lived in would burst in that class.
The history of the country I lived in had been taught to instil a sense of patriotism, a feeling of pride in how certain individuals like Gandhi used non-violence to achieve freedom. But MUWCI had no such agenda to push on to me.
The list of majorly represented names on the whiteboard seemed like white-washed history: upper-middle-class, well-educated men who preached "non-violent" means. The exceptions to this representation rubric were just a few.
The voice of my teacher was lulling me to sleep, and the squeak of the board being erased only seemed to worsen my tiredness. The bright yellow of the hall, with its decorations, kitchen, and games made us seem like killjoys. Expecting a discussion about the events of the independence struggle, I decided to not engage in it. But we ended up discussing an integral part of the movement- what happened during the partition of pre-independent India. These series of events had been excluded from the narrative other educational institutions told me. An event where taking one side meant villainizing the other, the risk of distorting a generation's perceptions by a mere choice of words - no wonder schools shied away from talking about these events.
It wasn't the discussion that ensued that surprised me- a lot of it was common knowledge. What surprised me was the ease with which the topic was approached.
The daunting nature of the topic did not deter the class from touching upon it, and neither did anyone invalidate the feelings of any community. We talked about communities we were not a part of, and we did not enforce our own opinions on their actions... What I learnt that day was not anything regarding history per se, but about the impact of discussion.
History has always been roped into politics and morals and has been very contentious whenever it involved old scars. History encouraged a debate culture; that was what I believed in. Yet right there, I saw a discussion flourish that did not take sides. Neither was it meaningless. A discussion has meaning even if it does not have a definite conclusion. A discussion is valuable even if its purpose is not to win an argument.
There was value in talking without a motive. As simple as that may sound, it took me 16 years to fully realize that. I will not exaggerate and state that this particular incident completely changed my outlook. Neither will I say that it was an event whose impact was blown out of proportion. Going forward, my appreciation for all the discussion-based events MUWCI organises has increased.
The biggest realisation that I had from this academic experience was an appreciation for discussion over debate, and a skill I picked up was being brave enough to approach sensitive subjects with due care. After that class, my persistent need to be a part of every narrative had diminished, and my appreciation for the spoken word had increased.
Have I become a better speaker? Maybe not. But I have realized the value of understanding narratives without forcing myself into them. Bettering oneself through one's academic pursuits continues to be my goal in MUWCI, and such experiences make the time I spend (sleep-deprived or not) worth it.
Struggling to stay awake, I looked at the clock, in hopes that the empty classroom meant cancelled class today. Too exhausted to check my emails to confirm whether this was the case, I reassured myself that today's class discussion was on Indian history, a topic I considered myself well-versed in. Or so I thought.
Just then, my phone lit up. "Class in Wada 2" was splashed across the screen. I had missed twenty minutes of class. But the biggest concern was getting back to the residential area on just one cup of coffee and 4 hours of sleep. Classes had become mundane, and I was functioning solely on routine. Learning had become lost in the backdrop of IB grades, IAs, and deadlines. The only class I could catch a break in was history, I thought to myself. Right now there was nothing more to class other than jotting down notes to get scores later on.
The sun was ascending in the sky, and all I wanted was for it to set. Walking to class leisurely didn't sit right with me as I passed numerous tired yet smiling faces on my way out. My legs simply would not speed up, owing to the pain meds I take. The scenery on campus is gorgeous, and that sure helps me to get to class.
I reached the hall, and my teacher instinctively knew why I was late. You could see the sedation the pain medication has clearly on my face. The usually lively hall was dimmed by the sleepy faces and drowsy voices. The names of prominent Indian independence leaders were written on the whiteboard. What I thought the class would turn out to be was not that at all.
What I thought I knew was merely data, not history. History's subjectivity does not make it a less valid study- the first lesson I learnt in my history class.
The difference between the way history is taught in a more traditional school versus an international setting like MUWCI is large. This is why I chose to take up history at the start. But that history class made me uncomfortable.
Confronting demons of times past is a common occurrence in history. From uncovering internalized prejudices to unearthing saplings of today's conflicts, history always holds the possibility of bursting the bubble of simplicity around you. That bubble I lived in would burst in that class.
The history of the country I lived in had been taught to instil a sense of patriotism, a feeling of pride in how certain individuals like Gandhi used non-violence to achieve freedom. But MUWCI had no such agenda to push on to me.
The list of majorly represented names on the whiteboard seemed like white-washed history: upper-middle-class, well-educated men who preached "non-violent" means. The exceptions to this representation rubric were just a few.
The voice of my teacher was lulling me to sleep, and the squeak of the board being erased only seemed to worsen my tiredness. The bright yellow of the hall, with its decorations, kitchen, and games made us seem like killjoys. Expecting a discussion about the events of the independence struggle, I decided to not engage in it. But we ended up discussing an integral part of the movement- what happened during the partition of pre-independent India. These series of events had been excluded from the narrative other educational institutions told me. An event where taking one side meant villainizing the other, the risk of distorting a generation's perceptions by a mere choice of words - no wonder schools shied away from talking about these events.
It wasn't the discussion that ensued that surprised me- a lot of it was common knowledge. What surprised me was the ease with which the topic was approached.
The daunting nature of the topic did not deter the class from touching upon it, and neither did anyone invalidate the feelings of any community. We talked about communities we were not a part of, and we did not enforce our own opinions on their actions... What I learnt that day was not anything regarding history per se, but about the impact of discussion.
History has always been roped into politics and morals and has been very contentious whenever it involved old scars. History encouraged a debate culture; that was what I believed in. Yet right there, I saw a discussion flourish that did not take sides. Neither was it meaningless. A discussion has meaning even if it does not have a definite conclusion. A discussion is valuable even if its purpose is not to win an argument.
There was value in talking without a motive. As simple as that may sound, it took me 16 years to fully realize that. I will not exaggerate and state that this particular incident completely changed my outlook. Neither will I say that it was an event whose impact was blown out of proportion. Going forward, my appreciation for all the discussion-based events MUWCI organises has increased.
The biggest realisation that I had from this academic experience was an appreciation for discussion over debate, and a skill I picked up was being brave enough to approach sensitive subjects with due care. After that class, my persistent need to be a part of every narrative had diminished, and my appreciation for the spoken word had increased.
Have I become a better speaker? Maybe not. But I have realized the value of understanding narratives without forcing myself into them. Bettering oneself through one's academic pursuits continues to be my goal in MUWCI, and such experiences make the time I spend (sleep-deprived or not) worth it.
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