The Silent Weight of Boarding School Memories

Across the past weekend, I kept hearing boarding school stories, and each one carried its own weight.

One narrator broke down in tears while recalling the years of punishment and deprivation.

Her voice shook as she spoke about going hungry or watching nuns burn the small bites people smuggled from home because it was considered illegal.

Others remembered lining up for water that never came, waking up before dawn to wash in cold silence, or learning to hide their needs because asking for comfort was treated like weakness.

What stands out is how differently people carry those memories.

Some still ache when they think about them. Others speak proudly, as if surviving it were a badge they needed to earn.

A few shrug and say it was nothing because they learned to minimize pain as a form of discipline.

That is how many African children grew up: by swallowing their hurt before they had the words for it.

Coping became the lesson, not healing. You learned early that silence was safer than complaint, that pain was part of belonging.

I keep hoping that boarding schools today offer something kinder so that children grow up safe, not hardened by fear or hunger.