Children's Education

When I landed at Durban in January 1897, I had three children with me, my sister’s son ten years old, and my own sons nine and five years of age. Where was I to educate them?

When I arrived in Durban in January 1897, I had three children with me. My sister’s son was ten, and my own sons were nine and five. Where was I to educate them?

I could have sent them to the schools for European children, but only as a matter of favour and exception. No other Indian children were allowed to attend them. For these there were schools established by Christian missions, but I was not prepared to send my children there, as I did not like the education imparted in those schools. For one thing, the medium of instruction would be only English, or perhaps incorrect Tamil or Hindi, which too could be arranged not without difficulty. I could not possibly put up with this and other disadvantages. In the meantime I was making my own attempt to teach them. But that was at best irregular and I could not get hold of a suitable Gujarati teacher.

I could have sent my children to the schools for European children, but only as a special favor. No other Indian children were allowed to attend those schools. Christian missions had established schools for Indian children, but I was not willing to send my children there. I did not like the education those schools provided. For one thing, instruction would be in English alone, or perhaps in incorrect Tamil or Hindi. Even instruction in Tamil or Hindi would have been difficult to arrange. I could not possibly accept these and other disadvantages. Meanwhile, I was trying to teach my children myself. But my teaching was irregular at best, and I could not find a suitable Gujarati teacher.

I was at my wits’ end. I advertised for an English teacher, who would teach the children under my direction. Some regular instruction was to be given them by this teacher, and for the rest they should be satisfied with what little I could give them irregularly. So I engaged an English governess on £7 a month. This went on for some time, but not to my satisfaction. The boys acquired some knowledge of Gujarati through my conversation and intercourse with them, which was strictly in the mother-tongue. I was loath to send them back to India, for I believed even then that young children should not be separated from their parents. The education, that children naturally imbibe in a well-ordered household, is impossible to obtain in hostels. I therefore kept my children with me. I did send my nephew and elder son to be educated at residential schools in India for a few months, but I soon had to recall them. Later, the eldest son, long after he had come of age, broke away from me, and went to India to join a High School in Ahmedabad. I have an impression, that the nephew was satisfied with what I could give him. Unfortunately he died in the prime of youth after a brief illness. The other three of my sons have never been at a public school, though they did get some regular schooling in an improvised school which I started for the children of Satyagrahi parents in South Africa.

I was at my wits’ end. I advertised for an English teacher who would teach the children under my direction. The teacher would give them some regular instruction. For the rest, they would have to make do with the little I could teach them irregularly. So I hired an English governess for £7 a month. This arrangement continued for some time, but it did not satisfy me. The boys learned some Gujarati through their conversations and interactions with me. I spoke to them only in their mother tongue. I was reluctant to send them back to India. Even then, I believed that young children should not be separated from their parents. Children naturally absorb lessons in a well-ordered household that they cannot learn in hostels. So I kept my children with me. I did send my nephew and elder son to residential schools in India for a few months, but I soon had to bring them back. Later, long after he had come of age, my eldest son broke away from me. He went to India to attend a High School in Ahmedabad. I believe my nephew was satisfied with what I could give him. Unfortunately, he died in the prime of youth after a brief illness. My other three sons have never attended a public school. They did, however, receive some regular schooling at a makeshift school I started in South Africa for children of Satyagrahi parents.

These experiments were all inadequate. I could not devote to the children all the time I had wanted to give them. My inability to give them enough attention and other unavoidable causes prevented me from providing them with the literary education I had desired, and all my sons have had complaints to make against me in this matter. Whenever they come across an M.A, or a B.A., or even a matriculate, they seem to labour under the handicap of a want of school education.

These experiments were all inadequate. I could not give the children as much time as I had wanted to. Because I could not give them enough attention, and for other unavoidable reasons, I could not give them the literary education I had hoped to provide. All my sons have complained to me about this. Whenever they meet someone with an M.A. or a B.A., or even someone who has finished school, they seem to feel disadvantaged by their own lack of schooling.

Nevertheless I am of opinion, that if I had insisted on their being educated, somehow, at public schools they would have been deprived of the training that can be had only at the school of experience, or from constant contact with the parents; I should never have been free, as I am today, from anxiety on their score, and the artificial education that they could have had in England or South Africa, torn from me, would never have taught them the simplicity and the spirit of service, that they show in their lives today, while their artificial ways of living might have been a serious handicap in my public work. Therefore, though I have not been able to give them a literary education either to their or to my satisfaction, I am not quite sure, as I look back on my past years, that I have not done my duty by them to the best of my capacity. Nor do I regret not having sent them to public schools. I have always felt, that the undesirable traits I see today in my eldest son are an echo rather, of my own undisciplined and unformulated early life. I regard that time as a period of half-baked knowledge and indulgence. It coincided with the most impressionable years of my eldest son, and naturally he has refused to regard it as my time of indulgence and inexperience. He has on the contrary believed that that was the brightest period of my life, and the changes, effected later, have been due to delusion, miscalled enlightenment. And well he might. Why should he not think, that my earlier years represented a period of awakening, and the later years of radical change, years of delusion and egotism? Often have I been confronted with various posers from friends: What harm had there been, if I had given my boys an academical education? What right had I thus to clip their wings? Why should I have come in the way of their taking degrees and choosing their own careers?

Nevertheless, I believe they would have missed valuable training if I had insisted on sending them to public schools. That training comes only from experience or constant contact with parents. I would never have been as free from anxiety about them as I am today. Separated from me, they could have received an artificial education in England or South Africa. But it would never have taught them the simplicity and spirit of service they show in their lives today. And their artificial ways of living might have been a serious handicap to my public work. I have not been able to give them a literary education that satisfies them or me. Yet, as I look back, I am not sure that I failed to do my duty by them as best I could. Nor do I regret not sending them to public schools. I have always felt that the undesirable traits I see in my eldest son reflect my own undisciplined and unsettled early life. I regard that time as a period of incomplete knowledge and indulgence. It coincided with my eldest son’s most impressionable years. Naturally, he has refused to see it as a time of indulgence and inexperience for me. On the contrary, he has believed that it was the brightest period of my life. He believes that the changes I made later were the result of delusion, wrongly called enlightenment. And he may well believe that. Why should he not think that my earlier years were a time of awakening? Why should he not see my later years of radical change as years of delusion and egotism? Friends have often challenged me with questions. What harm would there have been in giving my boys an academic education? What right had I to clip their wings in this way? Why should I have stood in the way of their earning degrees and choosing their own careers?

I do not think, that there is much point in these questions. I have come in contact with numerous students. I have tried myself or through others to impose my educational ‘fads’ on other children too and I have seen the results thereof. There are a number of young men today whom I know contemporaneous with my sons, and I do not think man to man they are any better than my sons, or that my sons have much to learn from them.

I do not think these questions matter much. I have met many students. I have tried to impose my educational ‘fads’ on other children, either myself or through others. I have seen the results. I know a number of young men today who are the same age as my sons. Comparing them individually, I do not think they are any better than my sons. Nor do I think my sons have much to learn from them.

But the ultimate result of my experiments is in the womb of the future. My object in discussing this subject here is, that a student of the history of civilisation may have some measure of the difference between disciplined home education and school education, and also of the effect produced on children through changes introduced by parents in their lives. The purpose of this chapter is also to show the lengths to which a votary of truth is driven by his experiments with truth, as also to show the votary of liberty how many are the sacrifices demanded by that stern goddess. Had I been blind to a sense of self-respect, and allowed myself to be satisfied with having for my children the education that other children could not get, I should certainly have given them a literary education, but deprived them of the object-lesson in liberty and self-respect that I gave them at the cost of the literary training. And where a choice has to be made between liberty and learning, who will not say that the former has to be preferred a thousand times to the latter?

But the ultimate result of my experiments remains to be seen. I discuss this subject so that students of the history of civilization may gain some measure of the difference between disciplined education at home and education at school. They may also gain some measure of the effect on children when parents introduce changes into their lives. This chapter also shows how far experiments with truth drive a devotee of truth. It also shows a devotee of liberty how many sacrifices that stern goddess demands. If I had ignored self-respect and been content to give my children an education unavailable to other children, I would certainly have given them a literary education. But I would have deprived them of the practical lesson in liberty and self-respect that I gave them instead of literary training. And when a choice must be made between liberty and learning, who would not say that liberty should be preferred a thousand times over?

The youths, whom I called out in 1920 from those citadels of slavery,—their schools and colleges,—and whom I advised that it was far better to remain unlettered and break stones for the sake of liberty than to go in for a literary education in the chains of slaves, will probably be able now to trace my advice to its source.

In 1920, I called on young people to leave their schools and colleges, those citadels of slavery. I advised them that it was far better to remain unable to read and write and break stones for liberty than to pursue a literary education in the chains of slavery. Those young people can probably now trace my advice to its source.