Ten Years Later, the Question Still Haunts Me – Why Are We Still Beating Children?

Ten years ago, I was confronted by a reality I had believed belonged to South Africa’s past. I learned that my late sister’s twin sons – then in Grade 3 at a rural primary school – were being subjected to corporal punishment. This was not hidden, nor was it rare. It was routine. It was normalised. And it was met with silence. That discovery reopened wounds I have carried for decades. I was schooled during the late 1970s and 1980s, when beating children was considered discipline and humiliation was a teaching tool. Fear followed us into classrooms daily. Anxiety was constant. Even now, long after leaving school, I cannot say I have overcome the deleterious effects of those experiences – it is work in progress.

Believing that reason, law and basic humanity would prevail, I approached the school principal. I explained calmly but firmly that corporal punishment is illegal and incompatible with dignity, learning and care. I expected leadership. What I encountered instead was deflection. The practice was described as unfortunate and sporadic, something beyond her direct control.

Weeks later, my nephews returned home with the same reports: the beatings continued. What disturbed me most was not only the behaviour of individual teachers, but the collective resignation to corporal punishment as a norm and the only way to discipline children that seemed to prevail in that school and in the community. Parents knew. The community knew. Many had simply accepted this violence as inevitable and even necessary, something not to be challenged. That resignation is perhaps the most dangerous legacy of corporal punishment – it has produced generational victims and a self-perpetuating norm of victimisation in our schools.

A school is a society in miniature. It is where children learn not only mathematics and language, but also how power operates, how authority treats vulnerability, and whether dignity is conditional or it is an inalienable right. Pain cannot coexist with care. Violence cannot teach respect. When harm is justified as discipline, children internalise a dangerous lesson: that abuse is normal, even deserved. Ten years on, I still wrestle with this same question: what do we tell children when those entrusted with their protection become a source of fear? What lesson is learned when laws exist but are ignored without consequence?

Defenders of corporal punishment have a familiar retort: If we do not beat children, how do we discipline them? This question rests on a false premise – that inflicting physical pain is the only effective form of control. Decades of research prove otherwise. Educational psychology has long established that fear inhibits learning. Studies by the American Psychological Association and UNESCO consistently show that corporal punishment increases anxiety, aggression and dropout rates, while undermining trust between learners and educators. Children who are beaten are not taught self-discipline; they are taught compliance through fear.

By contrast, positive and restorative approaches to discipline are proven to be more effective and sustainable. Restorative discipline, now widely adopted in school systems across Europe, Canada and parts of Africa, focuses on accountability rather than punishment. Learners are encouraged to understand the impact of their behaviour, take responsibility, and repair harm. This approach builds empathy, self-regulation and social skills – qualities essential to both learning and citizenship.

Clear and consistent rules are another cornerstone of effective discipline. Children thrive in structured environments where expectations are known and consequences are predictable. Importantly, consequences need not involve physical pain. Loss of privileges, time-outs, reflective writing, classroom service, or mediated apologies can correct behaviour without violating dignity. Positive reinforcement is equally powerful. Research in child development shows that acknowledging and rewarding appropriate behaviour strengthens it far more effectively than punishing misbehaviour. When learners are recognised for effort, cooperation and improvement, classrooms become safer, calmer and more productive. Parental involvement also plays a critical role. Discipline is most effective when schools and families work in partnership, sharing expectations and strategies. Regular communication, counselling referrals where necessary, and early intervention prevent minor behavioural issues from escalating. These methods require effort, patience and training. They demand professionalism. But that is precisely the point. Teaching is not merely about delivering content; it is about shaping human beings.

The argument that teachers “know no other way” cannot be accepted. Teachers are adults and trained professionals. If we expect children to learn, adapt and grow, then we must demand the same of those who teach them. Violence is not a failure of technique; it is a failure of imagination, support and accountability. It is also worth noting that corporal punishment places teachers themselves at risk – legally, professionally and morally. It normalises the abuse of power and erodes respect for authority. A classroom ruled by fear may appear orderly, but it is brittle. The moment fear disappears, so does control – we are already witnessing this in some schools where we have seen acts of violence by students against students and students against teachers.

The persistence of corporal punishment is therefore not a failure of legislation. It is a failure of moral courage. It reflects our reluctance to confront harmful traditions, particularly when they are deeply embedded in our communities and histories. I wish I could say that much has changed since I raised my voice a decade ago. I cannot. Reports, surveys and lived experiences suggest that too many children still associate school with pain rather than possibility.

If we truly believe in children’s rights, then protecting them cannot be optional, delayed or selectively enforced. It must be urgent. It must be real. And it must begin with the courage to say, collectively and without qualification: this ends with us.