A Teacher's Meditation

I was 10 years old when I found myself navigating the twin perils of fifth grade and the Islamic Revolution in Iran. By winter of 1979, holding classes at the school was so dangerous that we had classes in the basement of a Persian businessman. One day in mid-December, we heard pounding on the door above us. My three teachers told us to be quiet and then went upstairs to see what was the matter. Moments later, we heard noises of a scuffle. A classmate crept up to see what was happening. He barreled down to report that there were men with guns by the stairwell. My best friend and I clutched each other’s hands and closed our eyes. We all did as we were told: we were quiet. And then, loud and clear, Mr. Barlag’s voice boomed above us: “You have to get through us before you can get to these children.” After a long, tense silence, we heard the door close. Then, the teachers came back down the stairs and calmly resumed the lesson.

From that moment, I knew one thing: I wanted to be a Mr. Barlag.

Now, over thirty years later, I’ve come to understand that protecting a child is not just a matter of shielding him from bullets. As a teacher, I have also been a protector of children. Ultimately, protecting a child means ensuring that he is given options that allow him to believe in his own self-worth and to discover the path that will help him realize his true potential. The potential for success already lies within the child; it needs to be discovered and nurtured with expertise, respect and compassion.

Underlying this philosophy is a silent commitment I made three decades ago as a little girl huddled in a basement: to be a Mr. Barlag – to be someone who protects and advocates for every child.

The future diplomat and teacher, taken many years ago in Iran.

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