• Home
• UK Politics
• World Politics
• Policy
• Media
• Lifestyle
• Sport
• Contributors
• Topics

Touching Children

Adrian Hilton describes the dilemmas faced by teachers up and down the country. To physically touch a child is to invite unfortunate consequences, he warns.

By Adrian Hilton

13 Jul 2011, 12:37

Ben was a chirpy, cheeky and very bright boy. His eager little face was invariably first to my class, always keen to debate the latest news story or political development (all of my lessons begin with analysis of a current affair). I adopt the Jesuitical strategy of teaching Year 7s to think for themselves so that by Year 13 (if not before) they’ll be critical thinkers for life, able to dissect a story, identify journalistic bias, and get to a deeper truth through Socratic reasoning. Nothing delights me more than nurturing those minds who will one day summon up the confidence to assert their own reasoned opinion and argue with me, put a contrary view, and tell me I’m wrong. It’s an unqualified pleasure to teach children like Ben.   

He arrived at my class one day in tears. He didn’t want to say what was wrong, and was a little embarrassed in front of his friends. I asked him if he’d prefer to leave the room and compose himself. He shook his head, so I continued with the lesson, occasionally glancing over to check on him. He didn’t say a word that day: my star pupil was mute for an entire hour. He came back to see me at lunchtime, and told me, sobbing his heart out, that his dad had passed away. He didn’t want the day off: he wanted to be with his friends and said he could never miss one of my lessons. As the tears poured down his cheeks, my eyes glazed over. I wanted to reach out and hold him, comfort him, assure him there are people who care.

Halima was one of my delights: I’d identified her as ‘Gifted & Talented’ after just one lesson when she came to me in Year 10. She loved philosophy and was captivated by politics and theology, especially those relating to the Middle East. She also had a flair for public speaking and a charisma for debating which frequently left her peers floundering. I always remember intellects like hers, not least because they make getting out of bed in a morning so much more worthwhile. Halima told me at one point that she wanted to go into politics: I’d helped to nurture a little future Aung San Suu Kyi. Brilliant.

Then, one day, she arrived at my class wearing a hijab. Nothing wrong with that: hundreds of girls in the school wear one, and seem very content to do so. But Halima was no longer arguing or debating; in fact, she was scarcely speaking. This went on for quite a few weeks; neither her form tutor nor head of year could elicit anything from her as to why her demeanour had changed so profoundly; why she was suddenly so sad and withdrawn. And neither could I, until one parents’ evening when her father and elder brother came to see. In front of Halima, they began to explain to me how this straight-A* student was such a disappointment to them: all she talked about was religion and politics – men’s things – and she showed no respect for them or interest in getting married and being a doctor – the imminent life they clearly had planned for her. I listened politely, trying very subtly to reason with them by drawing attention to Halima’s outstanding grades. She became visibly upset as I made the defence. Her father scolded her, told her she was a disgrace, and they moved on to their next appointment.

The next day I tried to speak to her but she was too upset. I reassured her that I knew and understood something of what she was contending with at home, and that there were people who could help. She burst into tears. It was clear that she wanted neither to get married nor be a doctor, but I’ve seen too many just packed off to Pakistan, never to be seen again. I wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her that she wasn’t the first to face such bullying and intimidation.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, Michael Gove has announced that the Department for Education has reviewed schools’ ‘no touch policies’. He’s encouraging a shift in approach to physical contact with children by emphasising that teachers have the power to use ‘reasonable force’ to prevent pupils committing an offence, injuring themselves or others, or damaging property, and to maintain good order and discipline in the classroom. He refers us to separate advice in the document ‘Use of Reasonable Force – guidance for school leaders, staff and governing bodies’.

This announcement has been applauded as long overdue and trumpeted as a victory for common sense. But it’s nothing new: all the necessary provisions were established by the last Labour government, even to the point of emphasising the teacher’s right to use ‘reasonable force’.

But what’s interesting is how the whole context of discussion and guidance on teachers’ physical contact with children relates primarily to the use of force to control or restrain: to break up fights; to prevent violence or injury to people or damage to property; or to remove disruptive children from the classroom. In loco parentis now means learning about the ‘seated double embrace’, which involves two members of staff forcing a child into a sitting position and leaning them forward, while a third monitors their breathing; and the ‘double basket-hold’, which involves holding their arms across their chest to restrict movement.

But when it comes to cases like Ben and Halima, a strict, unwritten, no-touch policy operates, even in our CRB-obsessed culture. There is no trust, no security, and no confidence. My instinct is to comfort the distressed with a hug; praise and congratulate with a pat on the back; and physically bend a child’s fingers and correct their posture as they sit at the piano. But I can’t.

It’s not illegal to touch a pupil.

But we’re all suspected paedophiles now.  

Especially if you’re male.