Dear Teachers: When Silence no Longer Serves

We are witnesses.

Every day, we step into classrooms where systemic inequality quietly takes root. Sometimes it’s visible. Other times, it hides in the routines we’ve come to accept. Exclusion is growing—slowly, subtly, and systemically. The problem is, many of us no longer see it clearly. We point fingers, shift blame, and in doing so, we diffuse responsibility. But silence, even unintentional, signals acceptance.

And every day, we are asked—implicitly or explicitly—not to speak.

The truth is, we’re overwhelmed. There’s barely enough time to plan lessons, let alone reflect on the structures we work within. The paperwork is relentless. Behaviour logs, incident reports, supervision schedules, endless meetings—all while being told that universal design for learning will fix everything. But you can’t force a round peg through a square hole. We’re told it’s possible—just try harder. When the demands never stop, exhaustion becomes the norm. And when we are this tired, it becomes easier not to notice what’s broken.

If we’re kept busy enough, maybe we won’t see the quiet dismantling of equity in education. Maybe we won’t pause, reflect, or speak up.

But when we stop questioning, we stop noticing. When we stop noticing, we stop caring. And when we stop caring, we begin to participate in harm, without even realizing it.

This isn’t judgment. It’s a reckoning. It’s an invitation.

Because if you’ve ever felt something was wrong—even once—you are not alone.

Seeing matters. It is a form of resistance.

To bear witness is not to remain neutral. It is to name harm when you see it. And that matters deeply in a system that depends on silence to survive.

We are being asked to normalize things we know are wrong. This is where we draw the line. There is no shame in saying, “I will no longer participate in this.”

There is no shame in realizing you’ve been part of practices that harm, especially when those practices were packaged as help. That realization is not failure. It’s clarity. It’s courage. It’s the first step in refusing to uphold systems that devalue the very students we claim to care about.

And part of that refusal must include a rejection of the factory model of schooling. We can no longer accept a system that treats children as products—measured, sorted, and managed for efficiency. School is not preparation for life. For children, school is life. These are not just developmental years—they are formative, identity-shaping years. We are not preparing them for the future; we are shaping their present.

We are not in service of institutions. We are in service of children. And that means upholding their rights to safety, dignity, and meaningful education, not as an afterthought, but as a professional and moral responsibility.

When we center education around human dignity, child rights, and mental health by design, not as reactive fixes, we create something radically different. When we treat equity and the right to an education as foundational, not as bargaining chips, we stop asking if inclusion is possible and start building systems that make it inevitable.

We need to start naming what we see. Out loud. In staff rooms. In meetings. In classrooms. In emails. In conversations with families. Because if we don’t name it, we allow it.

We must question the policies that justify exclusion. The funding models that reward gatekeeping. The professional norms that expect loyalty to systems over children.

Because our duty is not just to an employer. It’s to justice. To equity. To the students who keep showing up—even when everything about the system tells them they don’t belong.

Speaking out won’t always be easy. It might cost comfort, approval, or even security. But the cost of silence is far greater.

So let’s do what we can, where we are. Document. Ask hard questions. Disrupt what needs disrupting. Tell the truth. Hold space. Break the silence that protects the system instead of the students.

We are not just teachers.

We are witnesses.

And when silence no longer serves, truth becomes the most powerful lesson we can teach.