Teach Secondary - Issue 14.6

The desk of shame Emily Spring sets out what your school’s seclusion and restraint policies may be inadvertently teaching students about their sense of self-worth... W hen I was 13, I was sent to seclusion for two weeks by my head of year. I don’t even remember exactly what for –maybe I’d skipped class, maybe I’d gotten ‘lairy’ with a teacher (that being circa-2002 Portsmouth slang for ‘giving attitude’). What I remember most clearly wasn’t the crime, but the punishment. We called it ‘The Desk of Shame’. The trauma of seclusion It was a single desk and chair, placed directly outside the head of year’s office. I recall sitting there in silence every day, all day, for two weeks. No conversation. No schoolwork. No stimulation. Just me, my thoughts and the slow, interminable drag of time. This wasn’t an example of ‘alternative provision’. It wasn’t a reflective space . It was social isolation. A form of psychological punishment. Public humiliation, even – and it didn’t help. Those two weeks were among the worst of my life. At the time I was already struggling, in that I was truanting, withdrawing and self-harming. I had visible cuts up my arms. I was silently begging for help, but what I received instead was silence and shame. No one asked me what was going on at home. No one questioned the adult who told them I was ‘ Just doing it for attention. ’ And even if I was doing it for attention, shouldn’t that have meant something?What if I was behaving like that because I didn’t know how else to ask for love, safety or care? Instead, I was gaslit. Punished. Simply left to rot at that desk. What arewe teaching children? As part of this punishment, I was also repeatedly denied access to the toilet, told to ‘hold it in’ and to stop being disruptive. I developed infections. I remember peeing blood. The experience has affected my body ever since, to the point where I now suffer with an extremely weak and overactive bladder as an adult. Back then I was a child , in the process of being permanently harmed by people who claimed they were ‘teaching me discipline’. So let me put it as clearly as I can – when we ignore children’s pain, what exactly are we teaching them? What are we effectively saying when we force them to sit in isolation, in full view of their peers, for days on end? What behaviours are we modelling when we tell them ‘no’ to toilet breaks, and then look away when they suffer for it? We’re teaching them that their bodies are not their own, and that their emotions are wrong. That their needs are ‘interruptions’, and that they deserve punishment over understanding. Above all, we’re teaching them that adults can’t be trusted. Abreach of rights and dignity While I was never physically restrained at school, I now work in a setting where the use of restraint on children is something I’ve had to educate myself about, confront and reckon with. For the avoidance of doubt, physical restraint is deeply traumatic for children. It doesn’t teach ‘emotional regulation’, nor does it help a child ‘understand their behaviour’, and it doesn’t make school a safer place. What it does do is imprint fear. It conditions an individual’s nervous system to expect violence, and serves to reinforce that same message I was given all those years ago – that your body is not yours. In the UK, the restraint and seclusion of children – particularly those with SEND – risks raising serious concerns under the Human Rights Act 1998, specifically with regards to: • Article 3, protection from inhuman or degrading treatment • Article 5, protection against unlawful detention • Article 8, the right to respect for private and family life – including physical and psychological integrity When we isolate children, deny their bodily needs or restrain themwithout lawful and proportionate cause, we’re breaching their human rights. It doesn’t matter if we’re in a classroom. It doesn’t matter if it’s deemed to be ‘official school policy’. Children are people, and the law applies to them, too. And yet, how often are these actions normalised as discipline? How often are they excused as being ‘only what’s necessary’? The quiet violation of toilet denial When a teacher denies a child access to the toilet, they may think they’re enforcing order or avoiding disruption, but it’s a practice that crosses a dangerous line and can have legal and ethical implications – especially when it results in physical or emotional harm. As noted above, the Human Rights Act 1998 means that children, just like everyone else, are entitled to freedom from inhuman or degrading treatment, and that their private and family life – which includes their bodily autonomy and physical integrity – have to be respected. Preventing a child from using the toilet can amount to degrading treatment, especially if doing so will result in them suffering from infections or bladder damage, or emotional trauma – such as feelings of shame, anxiety, or fear of wetting themselves publicly. And that’s before you even get to the accompanying social humiliation and potential for lasting psychological harm. For children with SEND, a history of anxiety, trauma or other existing health needs, this isn’t just unkind – it can be abusive. No adult has the right to override a child’s basic physical needs in the “Noadult has the right tooverrideachild’s basic physical needs in thename of classroomcontrol” 52 teachwire.net/secondary