by Farhaan Batchkhan for The 44 North, Guest Writer
"Silence, I’ve realized, is its own kind of language."
We’ve all heard it.
The quick deflection after a slur slips out, after someone mimics an accent for laughs, after a name is butchered one too many times and met with giggles instead of correction:
“Relax, it was just a joke,” or “Chill out, it wasn’t that deep.”
But there’s something we don’t say: Those words aren’t light. They’re heavy. They’re tiny cuts that accumulate until belonging feels conditional, until you begin editing yourself before you even speak.
As a Grade 11 student in Pickering, Ontario, I’ve watched this scene rewind and repeat in our hallways, cafeterias, and classrooms. A classmate from Tunisia once told me that he stopped introducing himself with his full name after hearing that someone turned it into a meme. Another friend, whose family immigrated from Jamaica, said she learned to laugh along when people called her hair “wild” or “unprofessional,” not because it didn’t hurt, but because calling it out felt riskier than staying silent.
Silence, I’ve realized, is its own kind of language.
When teachers allow racist comments to slide—to “avoid tension”—they’re teaching us what’s tolerable. When students shrug off microaggressions as “not a big deal,” they’re reinforcing a hierarchy of whose dignity matters. Language doesn’t exist in isolation; it shapes what we normalize, what we challenge, and ultimately, who feels safe enough to show up as themselves.
Addressing racist language isn’t just about individual slurs; it’s about how anti-Black language functions systemically, whether embedded in jokes, nicknames, assumptions about intelligence, discipline disparities, or who’s labelled “disruptive” instead of “passionate.” I’ve witnessed Black students reprimanded for raising their voices in debate while others are praised for the same energy. I’ve heard phrases like “ghetto” or “acting Black” tossed around like harmless slang—never questioned.
For a long time, I told myself I wasn’t part of the problem because I never used those words nor the tone that most often accompanies them. But neutrality isn’t innocence. There were moments I remained quiet when I should’ve spoken, not out of malice, but fear. I was afraid of being labelled “too sensitive,” afraid of making things awkward, and afraid that my voice wouldn’t change anything anyway. That’s the trap: We wait for someone braver, louder, more “qualified” to step in, while harm continues unchecked.
Real courage, I’ve learned, isn’t just confrontation but rather curiosity. It’s asking why certain words are used so casually in some spaces and not others. It’s wondering who benefits when we dismiss pain as “over-sensitivity.” And it’s having the humility to admit when we’ve been part of the problem—even when unintentionally. Vulnerability means saying, “I messed up,” or “I didn’t know, but I want to learn.” It means listening when someone says, “That hurt,” instead of rushing to defend your intent.
This work doesn’t just fall on students. Everyone holds responsibility.
Teachers must interrupt harmful language in real time, not days, weeks, or months later. Not vaguely, but clearly: “That word carries pain. We don’t use it here.”
Administrators must ensure disciplinary policies don’t punish Black students more harshly for the same infractions.
Peers must move beyond passive allyship (“I’m not racist”) to active co-conspiratorship (“I won’t let racism happen in front of me”).
But accountability without repair is empty. What happens after the harm? Too often, nothing. The student who was mocked goes home carrying shame. The student who spoke the slur faces no consequence—or worse, becomes a martyr for “free speech.”
I dream of a school where repair is built into our culture. Imagine if, instead of detention slips, we have restorative circles after harmful language is used—spaces where everyone can share how they’re impacted and collaboratively decide how to rebuild trust. Imagine student-led workshops where we unpack the history behind certain slurs or explore how language shapes identity across cultures.
Belonging shouldn’t be a poster on the wall; it should be the air we breathe when we walk into class.
Building that world requires structural change, but it also starts small. It starts with one person choosing to interrupt a “joke” with “Actually, that’s not funny.” It starts with a teacher pausing mid-lesson to say, “Let’s talk about why that word carries pain.” It starts with students like me admitting when we’ve stayed silent alongside a commitment to do better.
Words shape worlds. And if we believe schools should be places where every student feels seen, valued, and safe—especially Black students, whose joy and brilliance are too often policed by language—then we have to treat words like the powerful force they are.
The future I’m fighting for isn’t perfect. People will still stumble, misunderstand, and hurt each other. But in that future, we won’t hide behind “It was just a joke.” We’ll choose courage over comfort, vulnerability over defensiveness, and repair over silence.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s how we build a world worth belonging to.
Farhaan Batchkhan is a Grade 11 student, aspiring physician, and community leader from Pickering, Ontario. With more than 1,000 volunteer hours, he has been actively involved in tutoring, youth mentorship, sports coaching, healthcare, and student leadership. His experiences as a youth advisory member for multiple non-profits, a volunteer, and an advocate have strengthened his commitment to helping others and promoting educational opportunities for young people. Fluent in French and English, Farhaan is passionate about medicine, community engagement, and empowering the next generation through service and leadership.
