I still remember the first time one of my learners truly spoke and participated in a lesson, in her 11 years of schooling.

We were outside, having an outdoor lesson on the school fields for a geography lesson. Out of nowhere, this Grade 11 girl who was usually silent, withdrawn, almost invisible raised her hand. Her voice shook, but she spoke.

“Mam, I’ve never spoken in any class. But today, I had to.”

That moment confirmed why I truly am blessed to become a teacher. She was diagnosed with various neuro related ailments and even said to have an unsettled spiritual battle which caused her to have episodes during class. But that day, she willingly participated in the group activity and even volunteered to be the first speaker to give the class feedback.

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It is because of moments like these why I showed up the way I did for my learners in an under-resourced, overcrowded, dysfunctional school that I was teaching at. It is also why the heartbreak of leaving the profession. The  bullying, violence, and betrayal by those meant to lead still feels raw.

I am a University of Pretoria Cum Laude graduate. My record speaks for itself with various awards, leadership roles and media coverage. I grew up in a township, raised in a family of educators. For me, teaching was not just a career. It was a calling.

My philosophy was simple: dignity, creativity, and learner-centered teaching. In my classes, learners planted food gardens through the Eduplant project, coded computers when the school didn’t even have enough working devices, and danced with Soweto’s Finest in the courtyard that usually carried only rowdy school assemblies. They called me “the tech teacher or uMaam we Garden.” They came to class because they knew, in their own words:

“Miss, we love your class because you’re different.”

But behind these sparks of joy was a system collapsing under its own weight.

My school had just over 2,000 learners and about 55 teachers. At any given time, you could find “homeless teachers” wandering because there were no classrooms left. Doors stayed broken for weeks, forcing learners and I to break into our own venues. “Smart boards” and laptops were showpieces, broken and unused. Educators were expected to not say a word about this to anyone outside the school. 

Every inspection was a farce, a scripted play to appease an audience for a round of applause. When district officials came, even overcrowded classrooms like mine where 60 children sat elbow to elbow were declared “school-ready.” And afterwards, leadership would beam:

“Today we’re celebrating that the school is ready”

Meanwhile there are not enough venues, classes have broken doors, learners being given laptops that do not work which replaced the traditional textbooks and some smart boards that have never operated. That was the usual standard.

I refused to give up on my learners.

One Grade 9 boy, labelled “dangerous,” often skipped class and school. When I asked him why, he said quietly:

“I only come for your class, Miss. Otherwise, the other teachers do not care about us.” At a meeting in the Headmaster’s office his father cried out.

“You are the first teacher to even see my son. You don’t know what this means for us.” My learners built a lush garden that earned us recognition. They asked in disbelief:

“Mam, are we really going to be on the radio? Are they going to hear us speak about our garden?”

Those were the victories that kept me going. But behind them, darker battles raged.

The same system that should have supported me chose instead to destroy me. For more than a year and a half, I endured harassment and bullying from a Head of Department who is also a School Management Team member. She humiliated me in front of learners and colleagues.

And then came the day of physical assault. In full view of the staff, she slapped me, punched me, pulled my hair. When I protested, she leaned in and hissed:

“I’ll send my cops on you. I’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.”

The school’s internal mediation process chose to be neutral to both of us rather than hold her accountable for something they witnessed her do, in branded school wear, in the presence of the school principal and one of the deputy principals. 

In one mediation, he sneered at me:

“… if this issue goes to the department then Maam can lose her job.”

The Department’s lawyers were no better in terms of the responsibilities they had towards me in the case and how they went about it. Instead of protecting me, they tried to intimidate me.

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This was not leadership. This was organised bullying, weaponised against those who dared to raise their voices.

On 31 August 2024, I resigned. I didn’t leave because of the children. I left because of a system that breaks those who refuse to be broken.

For two years, I had been beaten down by toxic leadership, silenced by failed grievance processes, and abandoned by a Department that never once offered me therapy or real protection. The same state that invested in my studies at UP allowed its own structures to chase me out.

My story is not unique. Research shows that a significant amount of South African teachers experience workplace bullying three times the global average. The Basic Conditions of Employment Act, the Employment Equity Act, and even the Constitution guarantee us safe workplaces. But the reality? Teachers face violence from learners, neglect from leadership, and abuse from fellow staff.

We are silenced by bureaucracy, or intimidated by unions and lawyers who should protect us. What happens in dysfunctional schools is not just “chaos.” It is a quiet, sustained attack on the very people entrusted to educate the nation.

If I were MEC for Education tomorrow, here’s where I would start:

1.     Zero tolerance for workplace bullying: clear reporting lines, swift action, and guaranteed protection for teachers.

2.     Leadership reform: principals must be trained in organizational leadership, not just seniority or years served.

3.     Learner-centered teaching embraced: CAPs should be a guideline, not a straitjacket. Township schools need innovation, not compliance.

4.     Infrastructure basics first: fix the broken doors before dreaming about coding. No child should learn in a venue without handles.

5.     Parents as real stakeholders: empower School Governing Bodies and assistants to partner in discipline, support, and innovation.

We cannot keep celebrating mediocrity as if it’s progress. Excellence should not be punished.

I often think back to that Grade 11 girl. The one who whispered on the grass:

“Mam, I’ve never spoken in any class. But today, I had to.”

That day, she found her voice. But what about the thousands of other learners and teachers whose voices are still being crushed?

In township schools today, the silence is not only in the children. It is in the system itself. And until we confront the bullying, the violence, and the mediocrity, our classrooms will continue to break those who try to build them.

A year after my resignation, I am the one without a job. The learners have lost their safe space: the sanctuary that was my classroom. I am trying to make ends meet through my businesses.

Health Herbs Harmoney, is where I share plant-based healing, and Copy Paste Tech, where I explore how technology can open new doors for young people. But as we all know, small businesses in South Africa struggle to survive. Without access to capital, the impact I can carry out is so limited that it will take aeons before these ventures become sustainable. Meanwhile, the bullies and bad leaders I walked away from still sit comfortably in their offices, with full salaries, and full access to children.

I am grateful that I was rescued from that environment. There is peace in not seeing my tormentors every day. But my heart breaks for the learners who cannot escape, and for the educators who feel trapped in the same system.

The question that remains is this: how long will the Department of Education keep protecting bullies and celebrating mediocrity, while silencing the very teachers who could transform our schools?