When we began our work, government pressure and the resulting need to operate in secret seemed to be the greatest obstacle. But very quickly, something deeper became apparent: it was our observations of the children that gave us pause for thought. Children who seemingly had ‘everything’ – and yet slept restlessly, appeared cautious and fearful when playing, whose zest for life seemed subdued, as if they had withdrawn somewhat into themselves.
In our search for the causes, we first had to talk to the parents. Their questions kept coming back in similar forms: Why shouldn’t television and mobile phones always be available? Why should reading and writing be learnt at a time determined by the teacher? Why shouldn’t we ‘let a child be’ if they don’t want to go to school for once? Why can’t they just stay in the garden all day and play?
These conversations led us to fundamental issues. It became clear to us that social conditions profoundly shape our understanding and experience of freedom. We ourselves – parents and educators alike – had scarcely ever experienced social freedom in a stable and genuine way. Many parents approached the subject of freedom with great tension, sometimes even with anger, and unconsciously tried to compensate for their own lack of experience in their parenting. Political protests, repression, and house arrests made the concept of freedom both more urgent and, at the same time, more unclear. Many said: ‘We have no freedom – at least my child should be free.’
Gradually it became clear to us: freedom arises neither through merely letting go, nor through handing over decision-making too early. It emerges where thinking and acting mature step by step – on the basis of a sense of personal responsibility that arises within the individual. It is not a restriction when adults take on responsibilities that a child cannot yet bear; it is a prerequisite for the possibility of freedom.
At the same time, many adults feared that authority might be confused with blind obedience. ‘Leadership’ came under suspicion. As a result, children were given choices that went far beyond what was appropriate for their stage of development – extending to decisions affecting the family or their own compulsory schooling. What was intended as freedom overwhelmed the children. They appeared disoriented and unsettled. In our nursery, we could clearly see this: children who did not trust their carers; who did not respond when singing, who looked confused or carried on playing as if ‘absent’. It took a long time for a fragmented coexistence to develop into a supportive togetherness. For a child, the loss of a reliable point of reference means not only a lack of trust in adults, but that the world itself becomes uncertain.
Gradually, we came to understand: if the child is truly to experience change, adults must re-think and re-shape concepts such as freedom, care, authority and simplicity in their own daily lives. That is why our path became a shared journey with the families. We developed a shared language: freedom is not to be confused with letting go – and care is not to be confused with control. A child does not need endless scope for decision-making, but rhythm, clear boundaries and a reliable caregiver. We tried to understand authority not as power, but as a supportive, responsible presence.
Today, after more than five years, we have become a community of around sixty families. We endure threats, repair ceilings that have collapsed after heavy rain, overcome financial difficulties, and have recently been able to jointly purchase the plot of land on which our group rooms stand.
If I were to summarise the outcome, I would put it this way: in Iran, we were less concerned with implementing a ‘model’ Waldorf approach than we were compelled to rethink its human foundations – how a child gains trust in the world, how their will develops, and how freedom arises from the slow maturation of thought and action.
Arefeh Rezvanmanesh