Education doesn’t start in the school; it starts, if we want to mark a beginning, with the first breath, and it is largely terminated when a child starts going to school. By that time the thoughtless daily brutalities of his parents and relatives have toughened him enough so that, if he has not become hopelessly a-social, he will be able to stand the treatment meted out to him in school without much further damage.
The new-born child, in order to survive, has some needs: food, air, shelter. This has always been granted as obvious. His less obvious but in a subtle way much more powerful need, however, is to feel secure, to feel a oneness with his mother and a belonging to a family. The absolute dependence on his mother for all his needs expresses itself in a single powerful instinct to be near her, to be one with her as he has been during the nine months before birth. His sight is not developed, his hearing is not educated; the only feeling he has is in his skin—a feeling of contact. In spite of that, in “civilized” countries, from the moment of birth a child is separated from his mother, first by being wrapped in cloth and then by being tucked away in a separate bed.
Each feeling of insecurity in the mother or in the family will find in the child a powerful sensitive resonator. The father, reading a newspaper, worries about the political situation. No word passes to the child, but at night he has a nightmare. Our feelings and emotions are not confined to our bodies; they flow out and envelop the child. Most parents are careful not to manifest in words or deeds feelings of hostility against each other, but even a fleeting sign of impatience, or a hesitation in a demonstration of love will at that tender age hit the child like a blow.
Very soon a new phase of education starts and he is told: “don’t do this, don’t do that.” Then the universe, which had been one and wide and open, becomes divided into do and don’t. Each don’t is a wall, and each do a compulsion, and life becomes a single giant prison regulation. So then when our child is six years old and starts to school we are proud that he is tough, egocentric, aggressive, early grown old and able to survive the ordeal of school.
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It is an acceptable practice to do to a child what we would not do to an adult—the adult might hit back, but a child cannot. When we tell a child, “Run out and play now, I want to talk with Auntie,” he naturally feels cut off from the family circle. We would not do that to a stranger standing beside us at a bar. We would not do it to a member of our club, or he would immediately hand in his resignation. The child can’t. He feels only the more intensely having been rejected, cut off from trusted family ties. If he still comes back to the same family it is only because strangers are even more loveless.
The child, like the primitive, lives in a world where words themselves are not important, but the sound, the way they are expressed, the vibration which carries them, the warmth or the coldness of the speech, the patience or the impatience with which they are spoken are all-important. You might think that you can talk to a child about God when you don’t know Him, or say that somebody is in heaven if you don’t believe it, or that something is beautiful if you find it boring. Of course the child won’t tell you that you are a liar, but he will as surely distinguish a lie from the truth as he knows his mother by her voice.
Mind as nature intended it, is an instrument of defense, something like the horns of the buffalo, the tusks of the elephant or the fangs of the wolf. And as an instrument of defense, as a warner of danger, it is superb, the best nature could provide us with. But it is not that magnetic needle which can lead us unerringly into the future. It can only say, “Beware!” It will never say, “Do this regardless of the danger you may meet.” It cannot speak with the sovereign authority of the law of your becoming. This law, different for every individual being, is the only reason we are individuals instead of automatons directed by a mass mind, as the materialists may think, or by a master mind as the theist believes.
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Each time we tell our children: “You have to do this, you have to do that, this is the rule, the law, this is what everybody does,” we are pouring avalanches of extraneous matter over the deeper roots of their being, preventing them from flowering in their own way.
There was a time in Greece, and it was her Golden Age, when the young men started to school when they were sixteen years old. And in our own medieval ages a young man went to some chosen master and, partaking of his whole daily life with hardly any formal teaching, acquired the knowledge and the wisdom of this master who would one day declare him the companion and colleague.
In ancient India the young prince was sent into the forest, generally for several years, to acquire in an atmosphere of simplicity near to nature, from the myths of his people, their living wisdom and their special mission to which the ancient fathers had given a form vast enough for everyone to grow in and fulfil himself. It is true that technical skills and accumulations of past experience can be best learned in some form of institution as we have them today. But education in itself must become something entirely different. Just as we already have prisons without walls, there will be schools without walls. Schools will be an opportunity, a play and a joy, and not a chore which the sooner it is over the better. In the not-too-distant future adults will have won a 20-hour week, and may then be generous enough to grant it to their children.
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We have to distinguish between our basic attitudes, the background of our consciousness, and our surface knowledge, knowledge of facts, “book learning”. If we are born in a tribal society, as nomads, or as peasants, or in an industrial region, the background of our consciousness will be different. Things which are important in one are entirely ignored in another. Our attitudes and skills, our desires and longings differ or change fundamentally from one to the other. These changes take place in such a deep layer of our being that we become aware of them only when we meet a human being so basically different from ourselves that we are hardly able to find a common ground. In order to illustrate what I mean, here are two examples:
Australian aboriginals are colour-blind. The nomadic life of a desert hunter does not need colours. He sees things in the desert which other people don’t see, like the kangaroo who passed by three days ago, or the underground water in a dry river bed. But colours—no. No red, no green, no blue; no words for colours. And even when pointed out to him, only a shaking of his head. But the children of these aboriginals, educated in a mission school, see and identify colours. Nobody teaches them “colours”. But they live in an environment in which colours play an important role. The fence around the compound, the school, the books, calendars, clothes—full of colours. But what the old man sees in the desert, they are no longer able to see.
Do you like music? If you are a westerner, if you were born in the West, it will be western music; if you were born in China it will be Chinese music. Do you like classical music, or boogie-woogie? All this does not depend on any teaching. But the surroundings in which you grow up, what your family likes, will be imprinted in the background of your consciousness and influence your own likes and dislikes. Your attitudes towards life, whether optimistic, pessimistic, aggressive or submissive, your longing for beauty, for truth, are either strengthened or marred or crushed by the imprints which you received in your early childhood, generally given, as well as received, in a quite unintentional and subconscious way.
The basis in the young scientist, the future Nobel Prize winner—his spirit of investigation, his indefatigable inquiry into the nature of things, his insatiable curiosity for certain lines of investigation—does not depend on formal schooling, but is encouraged or discouraged in his earliest babyhood. “Do not touch this; don’t go near the fire; children should not play with scissors”—well, here goes that Nobel Prize. “Don’t go outside in the street; stay here with Mother.”—Well, there goes some future leader of an expedition, some world explorer. It is not only inheritance but also the luck of having very understanding and intelligent parents which is the background of almost any great genius of mankind you could name. There are many who for continuous evolution might have had a magnificent inheritance, but whose inheritance has been marred or directed into self-destructive paths by the involuntary shudder of a superstitious mother, or the wrinkling of a forehead or the lifting of eyebrows at just the wrong moment.
The memory of a child is soft and tender, and we allow all kinds of forces to cut their names and slogans and prejudices into that living bark of his tree of knowledge. And then when he arrives at school and has the rare fortune of a teacher who wants to talk to him about the good, the beautiful, the noble endeavours of the past, the shining stars of the future, there is no place to register it. Only so many old scars. True—you have not killed the child, because the human race is a tough race. But surely also you have stolen from him the possibility of being something other than a tough guy.
No god would care to incarnate in such a child.
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Human beings are not born aggressive. They are basically social beings. And this basic urge to love and to be loved, to collaborate and to be helped, to be with others, to play together, to be liked by everybody, to give and receive kindness, are much more fundamental than our defensive reactions against too much ordering around, too many prohibitions and commandments. The misbehaving brat, the child throwing a tantrum, the stubborn adolescent is not a product of too much indulgence, too much love and consideration, too much admiration or respect. He is the product of ill-humoured, intolerant, over-solicitious or fearful and stupid parents.
Have we enough imagination to picture what a human being could become who has never in his life encountered a movement of impatience or condemnation or criticism, or a single command? You may say that such a person would have no education, no manners, would put his feet on the table, would refuse to work, would be insolent and haughty, caring nothing for the wishes or needs of others, and unable to get along in ordinary life. But these beliefs are superstitions. They are based on no real tests or any sound psychological knowledge or experience.
If we want children truly civilized, which means adapted to an integral planetary civilization, these children will have to grow up in an atmosphere, an environment for which unity is a fact. And this means that all the adults with whom the child is in constant contact will not only have realized this unity in a fundamental experience, but they will have sufficiently transformed their pre-civilized biological inheritance and racial characteristics so that they are able to express in a coherent and constant way, in all their acts, in all their exterior conduct, this consciousness of oneness.
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As I said in the beginning, such an education seems to be in some distant future. But some day it will come.
There was a golden age when there was no formal education. Life—the life of the family, the life of the tribe—constituted all the education there was. Nobody told anybody else what to do or not to do. Everybody had his place according to his capacity and received everything according to his needs. There is no way back to this golden age. There is only the way forward, to new levels of understanding, to new levels of helping the growing child to develop all his faculties and even those highest of faculties—to love and to sacrifice—in a world without commandments, without walls.