The Rare Bird in the Classroom

On the quiet power of empathy, and the damage left behind when it goes missing in our classrooms.

1st day of 5th Grade 

Empathy is a word we all know, but few ever touch in its truest form. It drifts through the world like a rare bird :  spoken of in whispers, glimpsed in stories, caught in the corner of memory but seldom held in the hand. Most chase it, most miss it. And yet, there are places where this elusive creature still lingers ; not in grand gestures, not in fleeting talk over coffee, but in the quiet corners where patience, guidance, and the shaping of young minds demand more than knowledge alone. There, in the long silences between questions and answers, empathy becomes not a myth, but a necessity - but somehow still remains a myth to this very day. 

I have a bone to pick with those who choose the path of shaping students. If you ask me, every aspiring teacher should first have their emotional quotient tested — a kind of invisible clearance check before being allowed anywhere near a child. Back in school, whenever conflict flared between me and a teacher, I often blamed myself. I was the unsettled one, the loud, rebellious, dramatic child. Maybe the problem really was me. But now, six years later, as I lean against my window and glance into the house of my old tutor, I see her still clutching that same stick. The one that once met my skin. The sight unsettles me, pulls me back, and I find myself returning to that first idea ;  maybe it was never just me. Maybe the test should have been hers to take. 

We see films that tell us how a teacher can “change your life for the better.” Yet the ones I encountered seemed to change mine for the worse. And I know I am not alone. I hear this in the voices of others too stories retold years later in therapy rooms, framed as “formative arcs” in shaping who they became. But I cannot help believing that greatness of personality, strength of character, need not come from such wounds. A person can grow without being broken first.

I think of a 10 year old child I know, called “slow” by a teacher only because he asked too many questions. That one word, said aloud, became his name in class. His classmates picked it up, bullying him, mocking his curiosity, until it turned into anger. I worry what that anger will grow into one day.

And when teachers wound children, parents too feel the weight. Here comes what I call the academic trifecta: the uneasy triangle between child, teacher, and parent. In one version, child and teacher clash, and the parent sides with the teacher, branding their own child “naughty.” In the other, the parent sees the suffering, yet still leaves the child there, hoping “things will improve.” But in truth, they rarely do. This trifecta when left without empathy becomes a cycle of mistrust, silence, and neglect. What should have been a circle of support becomes a trap. And the child, caught in it, learns to carry wounds instead of confidence. And if any academic comments aren’t enough, some get slut-shamed, scrutinised for talking to the opposite gender, or torn apart piece by piece for not fitting into the idea of the perfect girl or boy categories. Slowly, curiosity turns into shame, friendships turn into suspicions, laughter turns into whispers. A child begins to believe that simply being themselves is wrong ; that their personality, their questions, even their innocence are faults to be corrected. The classroom, which should have been a safe ground for learning, becomes a stage where identity is constantly judged and chipped away, leaving behind not growth but fear and hatred.

In India, we are told that harsh teachers “make you stronger.” But what strength can truly come from the absence of kindness? A teacher without empathy does not build up a child, they wear them down. The brilliance that might have been polished into a diamond is instead crushed into dust. And in that dust, what we lose is not just learning but the lightness of childhood itself. We mistake fear for discipline, silence for respect, obedience for growth. And in doing so, we allow generations to confuse cruelty with care.

And yet, there is hope. Because for every stick, there is also a listening ear. For every label, there is also a word of encouragement. I remember teachers who noticed the child at the back of the class, who praised effort even when answers were wrong, who stayed a little longer after the bell to explain without shame. Studies have shown that when empathy enters the classroom, it changes measurable outcomes: children perform better academically, drop-out rates fall, and confidence rises. But beyond the numbers, it is the unseen that matters most — the way a child begins to look at learning not as punishment but as possibility. When empathy becomes part of the academic trifecta  when teacher, parent, and child meet each other with understanding rather than suspicion, that space no longer feels like a battlefield but a place where futures can take root.

So maybe the rare bird of empathy is not gone. Maybe it is simply waiting for us to make space for it  in classrooms, in homes, in every small act of teaching. The teachers who shape us best are not the ones who punish us into silence, but the ones who see us, hear us, and let us grow. And if we can shift our idea of strength away from ruthlessness and toward compassion, we may finally allow empathy to stop being a myth. We may finally let it perch where it belongs in the everyday lives of children who deserve nothing less.