(From henceforth, a few of my entries are backlogged ones. That is, I have written these some time ago, but have not found the time, or in some writings, the courage, to publish them. I normally mull over my entries, thinking about the impact they have on readers (if any do read them anyway!) and the implications or insinuations the writings might have.)
July 21st 2010 marks a momentous event in Irsyad. For the first time in my nine years here, the school conducted a public caning on three students – 2 are secondary three pupils, whereas one is a mere secondary two pupil. ‘Conducted’ seemed to imply that it was some sort of organized show. Indeed, it was. Every single detail was discussed, debated and agreed upon. It had to be done in an atmosphere of seriousness and respect – for Allah’s laws, for the teachers, for the students and above all, we do not want the offenders to be stripped of their dignity. In the end, the public nature of their crime warranted a public punishment, and thus, the public caning.
The decision to cane was not an easy one. The polemics gyrated among many issues – like the impact of the offenders’ actions on the school, in particular, and on the madrasah community in general. Many questions were asked – what went inside their heads when they did it? What made them do what they did? At one point of their misdeeds, the scene caught on camera was blasphemous and that shook all of us, with a few shedding tears. The utter lack of awareness of Allah’s omnipotent presence was just too unthinkable, too incomprehensible – yet the video caught them exactly in that state – utter disregard for a shared common courtesy, a shared common respect and a shared common tauhidic concept.
The three were caned in an atmosphere of tension and silence. Each received three lashes. Only the lashings were heard. The first and second offenders took their punishment quietly. I was not looking. I couldn't look. Wouldn't look...The third offender, perhaps due to his young age, was visibly disturbed, his face already red before he was caned and my fear, as well as some other teachers was that he would collapsed before the canings were completed. He was groaning by the first caning...I shed tears for him, that boy...for I remembered when he was in primary one and I sent him home about twice or thrice, for he would always be the last boy to still be in school and taking pity of his young age, I would send him home. He wasn't afraid to go home alone even at that young, tender age. He had been independent and street smart and his family puts their complete trust in Allah to protect him and help him as he goes to and from school and his home. He had a pretty serious accident with a lorry when he was in Primary six, if I was not mistaken, but he survived through that too, coming to school with a few scars on his face, still smiling, still unfazed. He was, in all respect, highly impressionable and prefers to mix with older students. In the end, this preference made him the youngest offender among the three caned that day.
May Allah grant these kids taufik and hidayah to understand the serious implications of their misdeeds and help them to turn over a new leaf. Amin.
On retrospect, were we right to take on the role of the family in caning these kids? Has the canings served the purpose of making right the wrongs they committed and making them see their wrongdoings? Did the pain and public shaming make them better Muslims? Did the canings make them see that the school cares for them; that the school still believes in them and has the hope of them changing for the better, which was why we chose caning to expulsion? Did the canings served to warn the others of the serious stance the school takes on such matters? Did the canings instill in others that wrongdoings will be served justice by Allah, if not here on earth, then later in the hereafter???
These are salient questions with no clear answers. However, I fear that to many of those questions, the answer is a dull, resounding 'No!'
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