Reflection

In the unique context of international schools, where educators and students navigate diverse cultures, languages, and constantly shifting global realities, the idea of “normality” becomes especially complex and fluid. Normality is a cultural construct, constantly reinforced by politics, media, and rituals, not a natural state that we are pulled out of and then simply fall back into once circumstances allow. I was recently asked how, in the midst of today’s wars and crises, one can possibly “restore normality” and how teachers, who are confronted with this longing for stability every day, can take such a demand seriously.

What we call normality in everyday life and leisure is itself an artifact. Politics, talk shows, and public rituals generate their own images of normality. Here lies the danger of what might be called a ”normalization conservatism”: a desire to return to an imagined state of stability. Yet normality cannot be simply retrieved. It is manufactured with all the means of artifice.

And so the real problem shifts. The issue is not the absence of normality, but the attempt to reproduce it artificially. This attempt is carried by a strange mixture of fear and arrogance: fear of the unpredictability of the present and arrogance in believing that politics, media, or public speech could create a truly stable foundation. The result is an echo of rituals, slogans, and symbols that produce the appearance of security, without offering real orientation.

What often goes unnoticed is that tensions persist even beneath these efforts. In education, for example, teachers may feel the impulse to fit students into neat frameworks, an attempt to create order and stability. But such frameworks can quickly become another burden of responsibility, placing conformity above growth. If we give in to this impulse too often, we risk reaching a dead end, both our own creativity and that of our students may be abruptly set aside when the next societal or political storm arrives.

Normality, then, is not a return but always a creation. It does not emerge from artifacts, from the decorative gestures of politics, or from the ritualized dramaturgy of talk shows. It arises in the concrete ways we speak with one another, work together, and share responsibility. As a teacher, this means I cannot give my students normality. But I can create spaces where openness, uncertainty, and incompleteness have a place. Precisely because we are sometimes surrounded by fear and arrogance, we must learn that normality does not grow out of incantation, it grows out of practice.

1. Specific classroom strategies that create space for uncertainty, agency, or open-ended outcomes.

The royal road to practice lies in learning to hold uncertainties, to walk through them with students, and to live them rather than escape them. This requires a healthy rhythm between individual and group work, staying with themes long enough for them to unfold, and deliberately extending the passages of our interactions. Such practices are not simply pedagogical choices, they are acts of resilience.

Again and again, students emerge in our classrooms who appear to falter, whose productivity declines, or who withdraw across different subjects. Dominant opinion often interprets this as laziness, distraction, or failure. Yet what if such moments are signals, pointing to something deeper, a crisis of orientation, a struggle with culture, or an unresolved question of identity? Many students’ identities are inseparable from their artistic identity. The way they make sense of the world is through creative exploration, improvisation, or resistance to rigid forms. To dismiss their “lostness” is to miss the chance to witness identity in the making.

This is especially visible in international classrooms, where cultural displacement and multilingual realities amplify the experience of being “lost.” Students navigate between home and host cultures, between different languages, and between competing expectations of success. Their sense of orientation may collapse under these pressures. But often, it is precisely in their artistic or non-linear responses in music, storytelling, visual projects, or collaborative improvisation that they begin to negotiate belonging and articulate identity. Teachers who recognize this see disengagement not as absence, but as the raw material of presence.

Practical strategies for teachers and school leaders:

• Invite multiple modes of response. Allow students to express their understanding not only in writing or tests, but through drawing, movement, dialogue, or digital creation.
• Stay with the “lost” moment. Instead of rushing to correct or redirect, ask reflective questions: What feels unclear? How does this connect to your experience? This validates disorientation as part of learning.
• Normalize cultural reflection. When productivity drops, explore whether it relates to questions of belonging or cultural dissonance. Invite students to connect class themes with their lived realities.
• Value artistic identities. Encourage students who process through music, art, or performance to bring those forms into academic spaces. In doing so, schools acknowledge that intellectual and artistic identities are often inseparable.
• Hold open-ended outcomes. Frame tasks where the goal is not a single right answer, but exploration and meaning-making. This helps students see “lostness” as an entry point into dialogue, not as failure.

For we and our students are no longer confronted merely with crises but, in some cases, with their full collapse, coming at us in ever shorter intervals. This is why education cannot content itself with rituals of stability or the repetition of normality. To face collapse together means cultivating classrooms where uncertainty is not feared but explored, where trust outweighs control, and where collaboration becomes stronger than competition. Schools that dare to do this resist the conspiracy of appearances make visible a different kind of strength: not the fragile stability of order imposed, but the durable stability that grows when responsibility is shared, when openness is lived, and when the courage to learn is greater than the fear of loss.

2. Examples of school policies or leadership decisions that actively disrupt traditional norms in service of deeper collaboration and equity.

School leaders must learn to operate in settings that are far from a neatly swept house. Crises bring with them heightened psychological reactions, and when class sizes are too large, these reactions are often funneled into a vacuum, where learning, creativity, and engagement wither. Smaller classes are therefore a crucial condition for sustaining real interaction and meaningful reflection.

In such an environment, leaders do not impose superficial order; they cultivate spaces where uncertainty can be navigated, where students’ emotional and cognitive responses are recognized, and where teachers and leaders alike learn to stay with complexity rather than erase it. It is precisely this tension between unpredictability and deliberate guidance that allows classrooms and schools to become laboratories for resilience, collaboration, and shared responsibility.

3. Illustrations of how collaboration with other schools or nontraditional partners have tangibly reshaped practice, mindset, or outcomes.

Partnering with neighboring schools to exchange teaching resources, working with local NGOs or universities to ground projects in real-world issues, and engaging with artists, entrepreneurs, or community leaders can dramatically expand what counts as educational expertise. But these partnerships are not only about content or skill-sharing: they are spaces to gather experience, to encounter moments where emotions surface, and to practice navigating uncertainty together.

In the face of unprecedented crises that often bring destruction and disorder, such collaborations create rare opportunities to learn resilience, empathy, and adaptive problem-solving. By intentionally engaging in these exchanges, educators and students alike confront challenges that cannot be fully simulated in traditional classrooms. They experience firsthand how to act, respond, and reflect when circumstances are unpredictable, complex, and emotionally charged.

4. Practical alternatives to standard rituals, such as how grading might be approached differently, or how assemblies can be reimagined to reflect openness and inclusivity.

Many teachers experience a chill down their spine when so-called assemblies run like clockwork, sanitized and rigid, and disconnected from the lived realities of students. This subversive view of rituals challenges the assumption that standard assemblies and classroom routines are neutral or harmless. In fact, such rituals can produce psychological strain, particularly when they clash with students’ attention spans, motivation, or digital habits. Traditional timetables and fixed hours are not merely organizational tools, they are deeply pedagogical structures; if they do not fit the learners, the potential for growth collapses.

In response, assessment and classroom practices must be reimagined. Exams and grading are no longer merely measures of performance, but opportunities to engage students in democratic processes, critical reflection, and the creation of meaning. Flexible, collaborative settings allow learners to grapple with texts, ideas, and questions in ways that cultivate agency and resilience. Assemblies, too, can be transformed into forums where students and staff co-construct agendas, share inquiries, and participate in discussions that matter, fostering inclusion and shared responsibility.

Importantly, this approach integrates the realities of crises overload, digital distractions, and emotional stress directly into the design of teaching and ritual. By doing so, schools create spaces that do not simply simulate “normality,” but actively cultivate engagement, critical thinking, and emotional competence, even amidst disruption.

I have come to see that what often presents itself as normality is a kind of conspiracy: a fragile arrangement of fear and arrogance that pretends to provide stability while suppressing creativity, trust, and resilience. Observing how leadership constrained by competition and territoriality can limit possibilities, I realized that ideas flourish only when shared openly. This insight became a compass; true leadership requires courage, openness, and collaboration beyond conventional boundaries. In practice, this means designing lessons with open-ended outcomes, rethinking rituals like grading and assemblies, giving students real agency, and creating spaces for reflection and shared responsibility. Normality is not a return to order it is a creation, emerging from daily practices of trust, courage, and collaboration. And so the question is: in times of crisis, do we cling to artificial rituals of stability, or do we dare to create spaces where something genuinely new can emerge?